


Slow Return

by microlm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Gen, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2020-11-08 23:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 97,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/microlm/pseuds/microlm
Summary: Cyril had always made it a personal rule to avoid the noble students of Garreg Mach, especially those hailing from the Leicester Alliance. Claude, however, made keeping that rule very difficult.





	1. Familiarity

The first time Cyril saw him, he wasn't sure why his eyes lingered on his face as long as they did.

It was a habit of his to remember the face of the Golden Deer's house leader. Fodlan was wary of Almyra, but that was a dulled edge compared to the bare _ hate _ from those of the Leicester Alliance. 

As a general rule, it was best to keep away from those of the Golden Deer, but it was doubly important to avoid the head of the house who could turn all those heads to look right at him.

The three house leaders were gathered before Lady Rhea as she told them of their responsibilities. Cyril had known this ahead of time and swapped cleaning duties with another worker to get a look at all three at once.

The house leader of the Golden Deer stood out.

Brown skin well loved by the sun. Wiry hair that twisted about in a multitude of directions yet somehow Cyril also knew was perfectly in place.

He had only meant to take a glance and slip away, but instead, he found himself staring.

Features like that were normal in Almyra. He hadn't realized how much they could mark him until he was taken to Fodlan. He had realized even less how much he had missed seeing them somewhere other than his own reflection.

Of course, that familiarity was all wrong. Even within his hazy memories, he knew he would be able to recall if he had seen eyes in such a bright shade of green in Almyra, and certain things aside, the house leader looked like he could be from Fodlan. This was a Riegan after all.

Still, there was something familiar about his face. Not like the familiarity of a friend or family member, but like Cyril should know it anyhow. He had seen the previous Riegan heir once or twice while he was bound to House Goneril, but that wasn't it…

The Golden Deer leader's glance slid from Lady Rhea to him.

Cyril jolted and the handle of his broom thudded against the wall.

Immediately, Lady Rhea stopped speaking and silence fell over the room. All heads were turned on him. Cyril tightened his grip around the broom.

Cyril thought he saw the house leader's eyes flash with recognition--as though Cyril too, looked familiar to him--but with a blink, that was cleared away and only an amused smile was left. 

"Need some help, kid?"

Cyril shook his head rapidly. He turned to Lady Rhea with his eyes averted to his feet, too embarrassed to look at her. "I-I'll come back later to finish cleaning, Lady Rhea." A quick bow, and he turned again, barely able to restrain himself from running out of the room.

He hadn't meant to be seen. It was nice when he had a few days of peace while none of the students were aware he existed. A few weeks if he was very careful. 

And this time he was so careless he had blown it all before classes had even started for the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite everything, Claude and Cyril were the relationship I was the most invested in. They deserved a five chain support, and an ending where Cyril makes peace with his past. If canon won't supply me then I will feed myself.


	2. Introductions

The stars didn't align. Bad luck continued to plague him.

Cyril knew it the moment he stepped into the library and nearly tripped over a stack of books. Scowling, he set aside his lantern to pick up the book he had stepped on and wiped its cover with his sleeve. 

A survey of the room made it apparent that someone had passed through like a storm, haphazardly tearing the contents off the shelves and strewing them about the floor, the tables, and--as he turned the corner--even the stairs. Every other step Cyril had to glance down to make sure that he didn't trip again, drop his lantern, and set the room on fire.

It was well past the burning of the midnight candle, but unbelievably, Cyril could see the glow of another lantern emanating from behind a shelf. Well, at least he could give a piece of his mind to the culprit.

Cyril drew himself up as he rounded the bookshelf. "Hey! Don't ya know to put things back where you--" 

Truly, the stars were misaligned.

Cyril swallowed the rest of his lecture as the leader of the Golden Deer peered up at him from his spot on the floor. Half a shelf seemed to be laid in several crooked columns around him like a poorly made throne.

The house leader shut the book in his hands with a thud. "Oops. Sorry kid, am I getting in the way of your cleaning again?"

Cyril flushed at the memory of shuffling away from Lady Rhea, and that shoved the lump in his throat out of the way. "Y-yes, you are! The library's closed!"

"Must be late then," the house leader said with a yawn. "No wonder the words aren't sticking. I'm really more of a morning person. Sorry, wanted to finish some reading before all the lordlings arrive tomorrow. You always work this late?" 

"No. I work at lots of different times. At lots of different places," Cyril said stiffly, already collecting the books around the house leader.

"Whoa there, kid," the house leader said, plucking the books from Cyril's arms. "To answer your earlier question: yes I do know to put things away after I'm done with them."

"It's my job."

The house leader tutted. "If it was your job then you wouldn't have started off with that question."

Cyril's lips drew into a thin line. He wanted nothing more than for the house leader to go to sleep and hopefully put Cyril out of his mind. Instead the house leader seemed to have no intentions of leaving. Even as he shoved the books back on the shelves, his eyes flickered over to Cyril, considering.

"So, what's your name?"

The stars weren't just misaligned, they had collided with each other and ground themselves to dust. Would it help to remain silent? Or would that just leave a deeper impression?

Apparently, he took too long to decide. The house leader laughed. "Guess it's rude to not introduce myself first. Claude von Riegan. Oh, and just 'Claude' is enough."

"...Cyril," he muttered.

"Oh, so you _are_ Almyran!" Claude was grinning as if the realization delighted him. An odd reaction.

"What about it?"

"Just a pleasant surprise is all."

Definitely odd.

Claude's grin faded, and a frown settled in its place. "You're not forced to be here, are you?"

"This isn't the Leicester Alliance," Cyril said, bristling. 

"So you can leave if you please?"

"I wouldn't leave Lady Rhea!"

"Alright, alright. Settle down before you swing your fire into the shelf." Claude steadied Cyril's swaying lantern with a finger. Under his breath, he mumbled, "and that wasn't exactly what I was asking…"

"I'll clean up the rest," Cyril said flatly. "So you don't need to stay here."

"Too slow for you, am I? Well, I guess I _have_ gotten in your way enough for one week." He slid the last of the pile that had surrounded him back into the shelves before standing. "Still, I feel awful about leaving you everything else to clean up."

"It's fine." 

"No, no. I'll tell you what, I was interested in reading the stuff I took out anyways. I'll just take them with me back to my room and you won't have to spend your time sorting through the titles to put them back in place."

Right. He had forgotten that putting the books back in place required him to read at least the titles. "Fine," Cyril said, keeping his voice as light as he could.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Cyril." 

Cyril blinked. Usually it took a few tries when people heard his name for the first time, but it had rolled off Claude's tongue easily. There was that odd familiarity again.

Cyril found himself staring as Claude gathered the books around the library into a basket that had been lying in a corner. At times, the lantern light glinted off the gold bead that held together the braid dangling from the side of Claude's face. 

He had seen noble women with long braids that wrapped around their heads, but he couldn't recall any men that braided their hair like Claude. Not in Fodlan anyways. 

"Why do you wear your hair like that?" Cyril asked before he could stop himself.

"You mean this?" Claude flicked at his braid. "I think it suits me. Think it'd suit a lot of people really, but I guess it hasn't caught on yet."

"It hasn't." 

"Bet it'd suit you too."

Cyril shrugged. "Probably not. Someone would tell me to get it cut off. Say it looks messy."

"You should see some of the hair on the nobles coming in tomorrow," Claude snorted. "Especially that Gloucester kid. If they were so concerned about appearances then there's at least a hundred styles I'd put up for a cut instead." 

With a flourish, Claude tossed the last of his mess into the basket. "Well then, I'll leave you to it--"

"Hey! You need to write those down in the checkout log!"

Claude groaned but leaned over the logbook anyways. "I was only trying to do you a favor and get out of your way faster," he said as his pen scratched over the paper.

"Nuh-uh." Cyril crossed his arms. "The church replaces things that are missing, so ya can't just take it without letting them know."

"I'm a quick reader. Would've returned these before anyone missed them."

"Mmhmm." 

The sounds of pen scratching stopped and Claude straightened to leave. "There. Don't stay up too late, Cyril."

Claude paused one more time at the doorway. "Oh, and I appreciate you keeping quiet about me."

Cyril tilted his head. Troublesome as it was, the mess had been cleaned up in the end. It was hardly worth raising a fuss to the guards about. "Uhh, sure?"

"I'll see you around." One last jaunty wave and Claude's footsteps faded down the hallway.

It wasn't until he had finished sweeping half the library that Cyril realized Claude's parting words didn't make him as anxious as he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Claude's entire cover is that it's just too obvious and too outrageous that people just kind of skip over it.


	3. Distance

This time he was certain he had found the perfect observation point.

A thin corridor ran above the main floor of the reception hall, mainly used as storage for supplies used by the dining hall. From between the railings of the stairs leading up to it, he could watch the incoming class of students without fear of being seen. They were all preoccupied with bowing low to one another, each eager to make a good impression.

The three house leaders had spread themselves apart so that the members of their houses could gather around them.

The Black Eagles flocked around the noble with white hair, each giving a stiff bow that was acknowledged with a regal nod from their house leader.

The Blue Lions swarmed the blonde noble who answered their deep bows with a bow of his own. Cyril wondered if he was getting dizzy from the constant up and down motion.

And the Golden Deer…

There was an distance between Claude and the students gathered around him. Some were shifting uncomfortably while others whispered to one another. Claude had an easy smile on his face as he spoke.

One student stepped forward, an incredulous look on his face. Cyril could not hear what was said, but it resulted in a low rumble of raised voices that caused the other classes to turn to look at the Golden Deer.

"That's over the line!"

"We're all thinking it!"

Claude laughed and held up his hands placatingly. The easy smile never left his face as he said something to the student who had stepped forward. Whatever he said, the student was cowed and stepped back into the crowd awkwardly.

Another student stepped forward. Purple hair chopped into two perfect triangles that perfectly clashed with his decidedly square nose. It was the oddest haircut Cyril had ever seen, and he knew immediately that must be the Gloucester noble Claude had mentioned.

"There's no need to be ashamed of your question," the Gloucester noble said loudly. Each word was punctuated with a dramatic flourish. "House Riegan has shamefully not only slipped in their responsibilities to the Alliance, now they are allowing their incompetence to seep into the esteemed halls of Garegg Mach. By tradition, the heirs of House Riegan have been the leaders of the Golden Deer, but now the one that is to lead us is hardly befitting our status or the status of this institution." 

Gloucester sighed a sigh that moved his whole body and Cyril thought he saw Claude's shoulders shake with laughter. "In the face of the Imperial Princess and the Prince of Faerghus, it fills me with shame that the one we force to stand equal to them is some imposter pulled from Goddess knows which unblessed land. But there's no need to fear, for even without the official title, House Gloucester will be happy to be the true leaders--"

"Getting a little too eager, aren't you Lorenz?" Claude said, somehow still smiling. "If we're talking about who _ should _ be the unofficial house leader, shouldn't it be Hilda here? After all, the main talks were for Lord Holst of House Goneril to be the next head of the Alliance before I was recognized. House Gloucester was...a good deal further down in the order of considerations if I recall correctly."

The Gloucester noble's pale face splotched with red, but Claude ignored that powder keg to gesture into the crowd. "So, Hilda. What do you say? Wanna take my place?"

Cyril felt his stomach lurch when he followed Claude's gaze and saw bright pink hair tied into pigtails. He had never worked in the main house of the Gonerils, but he had seen enough of them to know what one looked like. Even more than he had wanted to avoid Claude, he wanted to avoid her the most. At least the pink hair would be obvious enough to spot in the distance.

"Whaaat?!" the Goneril noble screeched, making Cyril flinch. "Ugh, no way! Claude, do you know how much work that is?"

"I _ did _ just spend a week being told what's expected of me throughout the year."

"_ Exactly _ !" She reached across Claude to pull the Gloucester noble back into the crowds. "Lorenz, we were _ both _ there when they confirmed that he has the Riegan Crest, so just drop it already."

At the mention of the crest, something shifted in the crowds. The mutterings settled down.

Claude observed it all without a single change of expression. "Well then, if that's settled, why don't we start the tour of the monastery a little early? It'd be awful if all three groups stuck together the whole time. Some of these places they want to show off really weren't meant to fit the entire student body at once."

The Golden Deer streamed past the stairwell and Cyril narrowed his eyes, trying to find any other nobles he would have to watch for.

As he passed under the spot where Cyril squatted, Claude paused, glanced up and threw Cyril a wink.

Cyril jolted away from the stair railing. 

Claude was already moving through the doors and into the gardens by the time Cyril finished making sure that no one had followed Claude's gaze up to him. With a huff, Cyril slipped into the storage area behind him.

He could practically hear Shamir's voice in his head reminding him that there was no such thing as a perfect observation point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to see others on the "Claude and Cyril please interact with each other" train. Unfortunately, this chapter didn't really feature that.


	4. Visibility

For a few days, Cyril did well enough to steer clear of the students. Most of his tasks were done in places that the students did not wander. If he kept his head down, then he could also blend into the background as long as there was a large enough crowd so that they would be too preoccupied with each other to think of the boy scrubbing the floors.

And then he was assigned to clean the classrooms.

He knew it wasn't something he could avoid forever. All work was assigned on a rotation, and he wasn't about to cause trouble for the church because of his personal aversions.

So Cyril gamely walked over to the classrooms, buckets and scrubs clacking against each other, leaving him no chance of a stealthy entrance.

But the classrooms were quiet as Cyril approached. A quick peek into the Golden Deer classroom revealed it to be empty. Out practical training, most likely.

Cyril let out a sigh of relief. If he was quick, he could slip out before they returned.

The floors were swept over once. They looked no cleaner, so Cyril swept it over a second time. Stubbornly, a stain persisted on the floor. He was left with no choice but to take a scrub and scratch away at it.

The area around the stain was becoming bright and shiny but the stain itself stayed in place as if it was permanently burned into the wood. Taunting him.

Cyril grit his teeth and scrubbed harder until the scritch scratch of the brush was all that filled his ears.

At least until he heard someone screech, "An Almyran!"

Cyril's body froze, but his heart immediately began to beat faster.

"What? Where?!"

Several sets of footsteps clambered into the room.

"Oh man, you scared me. It's just a kid, Lorenz," he heard someone say.

"Just a--Raphael, the Almyrans have trained children much younger than this to fight."

"Oh wow, I've never _ seen _ one before." 

Cyril felt his stomach twist into knots. He knew that voice. It was that Goneril girl's voice.

He forced himself to lift his head and found himself staring right back into the Goneril noble's face. Before he could stop her, her hands came up to pinch his cheeks and his mind went blank. 

"Aww his face is so round," the girl cooed. "It's actually kind of adorable."

"Hilda, how is it that you've never seen an Almyran?" Lorezn said, aghast. 

Raphael scratched his head. "I've never seen one before either."

"Yes, but she's a _ Goneril _."

"It's not like they've been attacking much lately," Hilda shrugged. "I heard we use to have a few Almyran servants at my relative's, but my dad never liked them near me.

The quick stab of anger cut through Cyril's fog. He slapped away Hilda's hands and bolted to his feet.

Hilda blinked but didn't attempt to close the distance between them when Cyril took a few steps back. Lorenz on the other hand, took a heated step forward. "How dare you--"

"How dare I what?!" Cyril shouted. "I was just doing my job when you all came in--"

"Doing your job?" Lorenz scoffed. "Do you take me for a fool? The floors were clearly already swept twice over, yet when I entered you were still scrubbing the floors? Right beside _ my _ seat?" He scoffed again. "Rummaging for information regarding the rightful next head of the Alliance no doubt. Well I'll have you know, I'm not so careless as to leave things pertaining to delicate subject matters lying about unguarded."

"I was _ cleaning _," Cyril grit out.

"Tell me who put you up to--ah!" Lorenz's face lit up with the euphoria of his breakthroughs of questionable content. "It was Claude, wasn't it?"

"What does Claude have to do with this? I'm here because Lady Rhea asked me to be here!"

"Aha! You know Claude!" Lorenz said triumphantly. He turned to the other two Golden Deer behind him. "Don't you both see how it's all coming together?"

Hilda sighed as she brushed her knees off and stood. "All I can see is you being _ way _ too obsessed with Claude. Why does everything have to come back to him?"

"Uhhhh…hmmm." Raphael's mouth scrunched into a thoughtful frown as he squinted at Cyril. "Well...I guess I can kind of see why you think Claude looks Almyran now that I'm looking at one."

For a moment, Cyril's anger was taken over by surprise. 

"This _ again _?" Hilda groaned. "For the last time Lorenz, Claude has the crest of Riegan--"

"From his father, no doubt," Lorenz said. "I take no pleasure in saying this, but my father informed me of Godfrey's tendencies. Most likely he was seduced by some Almyran servant girl and then sent her away from the house once the affair was known."

"I dunno," Raphael said, frown deepening. "Godfrey was real devout…"

"Oh, I don't know if anyone's _ that _ devout," Hilda said, now also frowning.

"_ Exactly _ . Claude has insisted that his parentage on both sides would have the pedigree required by the Alliance, but this is clearly false!" Lorenz shivered. "Someone who lived as a commoner thrusting themselves into leadership is awful enough, but an _ Almyran _\--"

"Look if you're done speculating, I need to finish the job Lady Rhea gave me," Cyril said.

"Not so fast, I haven't forgotten about you--"

Cyril stopped listening. This noble was too convinced, talking wouldn't do much good unless it was what he wanted to hear. He glanced at the other two. The last thing he wanted to do was get lunged at by Goneril noble, but from the way she was rolling her eyes Cyril doubted she would stop him if made a run for it. The one they called Raphael was too bulky for him to even entertain of fighting, but unless the Gloucester noble shouted for him to grab Cyril, most likely he wouldn't try to stop him either.

This was fine, Cyril thought, trying to calm himself like Shamir had taught him. This wasn't like last year when half the class had surrounded him and dragged him out to the fishing pier. There was only one real obstacle to get past, and he had gotten way tougher. He could definitely take on at least one noble if it came to that.

That was when the rest of the Golden Deer wandered in.

"What are you getting all worked up about, Lorenz?" a short-haired girl asked. Lorenz simply gestured to Cyril, and the girl followed his motion. "Is that...an Almyran?"

There was a soft wave of gasps and the circle of Golden Deer students closed in. He hadn't even started to run and already, Cyril felt exhausted.

"Yes, he is. Now come on, there's no need to crowd around the kid," Claude said, pulling back one of the students and pushing his way through the wall of bodies.

"Ah, Claude." Lorenz smiled smugly. "I presume you know this boy?"

"Yeah, that's Cyril. He works for the church. You should thank him, Lorenz."

The smug smile turned into a furious frown. "Thank him? For what?"

Claude lifted an eyebrow. "Haven't you been complaining about the scorch marks Lysithea left on the ground under your seat? You should be glad that someone's finally here to clean it up."

"I…" Cyril watched his eyes dart to the bucket of sud water and the scrub abandoned over the scorch mark. A faint flush dusted itself over Lorenz's cheeks. "Oh. Yes. That."

"Oh?" The smile had left Lorenz's face and slid itself onto Claude's. "What are you so embarrassed about? Don't tell me you've been bothering the kid with those theories you have about me. Let me guess, you're back to guessing that I'm Almyran."

"Half, actually," Hilda said.

"Only half!" Claude clapped his hands together in glee. "I'm honored, he finally acknowledges that I'm at least half a Riegan."

The pink dusting on Lorenz's cheeks turned into a deep red.

The mood in the room was shifting. This was the best time to slip away.

Cyril gathered the bucket and scrub. "I'll come back later," he said when he caught a few of the students staring.

Claude stopped him as he was about to enter the Blue Lions classroom.

"Hey, sorry if Lorenz gave you trouble."

Cyril shrugged.

"...or maybe I should be apologizing for Hilda instead?"

That made Cyril spin around. The water from the bucket splashed onto the cobblestones, but Cyril didn't notice even when it splashed over his feet. "Have you been asking around about me?"

"Ah, maybe I should apologize for _ that _ instead." Claude put one hand on his chest, another behind his back, and bowed. "I apologize, but yes. I did."

Cyril glared at him as he straightened.

And in Claude, Cyril could see the marks of what Lorenz had suggested. The same marks that had always made Cyril visible when he wished to be the opposite.

He turned away. "Forget it. I've got work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for two chapters of Lorenz being like that. But it's early school phase Lorenz.


	5. Off Target

THWACK!

Cyril frowned as he lowered his bow. All ten arrows loosed, and still the center of the target eluded him. With a sigh, he ran across the field to refill his quiver.

Up close, it was no better. Half the arrows failed to land on even the outermost ring of the target. Meanwhile, the ones that did land within the rings felt like they did so out of sheer luck. 

It was vexing. His parents had been simple wyvern breeders, so they hadn't started him on his fifth birthday, but he had learned how to use a bow and arrow after he entered the Almyran army. He hadn't had any practice while he was in House Goneril or during the first few years at the monastery, but he had been confident that he would be able to improve quickly. He wouldn't have asked Shamir to teach him otherwise.

He had imagined himself protecting Lady Rhea, shooting her would be enemies before they could make it close enough to see the color of her hair. Instead, after one year of receiving lessons from Shamir, he was only shooting fifty meters and the bow still felt awkward in his hands. 

Cyril gave another sigh as he returned to the fifty meter mark. He drew again.

"Morning, Cyril!"

The arrow slipped from his hands and stuck into the dirt without a dull thud.

He knew it was Claude even before he finished turning to give him a glare. It was barely past first light. Students almost never came to the shooting grounds at this time.

"What are you doing here?"

Claude waved his bow. "There's only one thing to do here."

"Isn't it too early for practice?"

"Oh, this isn't for class. I told you I was a morning person, didn't I? I just like to get some shots in after I wake up. It's soothing."

Cyril grunted and notched another arrow.

"You're still upset I asked around about you, aren't you?" Claude said.

Cyril paused. He thought again of how Claude stood out, how it was impossible for him to not stand out. How the students in his house had kept their distance from him during the day he had introduced himself while the students of the other houses had swarmed around their respective leaders. How a flicker of recognition flashed in Claude's eyes when he had seen Cyril that day in Lady Rhea's audience chamber.

Had Claude felt it then too? The sudden rush of relief that came from not being the only one marked as a stranger in this land?

Did Claude feel what he did too? The urge to look from afar and assess those that could bear him ill will.

"No," Cyril said at last. 

Claude let out a breath. "I'm glad."

Cyril pulled back on his bowstring and shot again.

THWACK!

Still off center, but at least it had struck one of the middle rings. Small victories.

"Hey, you're pretty good," Claude said.

Cyril flushed. "Don't make fun of me!" 

"I'm not making fun of you. It must be hard for you to shoot like that."

"Like what?" Cyril asked, anger dissipating.

"The entire shooting style you're using right now. Isn't it the opposite of what you were brought up with?"

"I-it is?" Cyril tried to remember. Had the awkward feeling of the bow in his hands merely been from the years of missed practices or something else?

"Look. This is how you're shooting now." Claude notched his arrow over the left edge of his bow and pulled back with two fingers. 

The arrow whistled through the air and gave a satisfying thwack on the target. Not quite dead center, but hitting the centermost ring nonetheless. Cyril couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy.

"And this," Claude continued, "is the Almyran style of shooting." The arrow was notched over the right edge of his bow, and as he drew the arrow back back, Claude's thumb was curled around the bowstring.

Another arrow flew. Dead center.

Cyril's eyes widened. Immediately, he tried to imitate Claude's second shot.

It felt less like an imitation than he thought. The bow sat more comfortably in his hands and as Cyril uncurled his fingers from the bowstring, the arrow flew with a happy whistle that knocked on some dusty doors of old, half closed off memories.

THWACK!

Not dead center, but it hit within the innermost circle.

"Well, well, look at that," Claude said, pleased. "That's much easier, isn't it? Still, you should keep up with what Shamir's teaching you."

The glow from the shot faded immediately. "You even asked around about who was training me?!" Cyril cried.

"No, Shamir's the only one who shoots like that. It's similar, but it's not the Fodlan method either."

"What's the Fodlan method?"

"Pretty much the same." Claude notched another arrow over the left side of the bow. "Except you use three fingers to draw." 

The arrow flew and almost seemed to slide into place next to the one that had hit dead center.

"The two finger draw decreases the chance of an uneven release, but it's much harder to pull. Yet despite that, Shamir is _ still _ able to shoot farther than anyone else at the monastery. You picked a pretty incredible teacher."

"Shamir _ is _ great!" Cyril said excitedly. A grin slipped itself onto his face before he could stop himself. 

"So what's all this training for?" Claude asked. "Can't imagine it's anything trivial if you're taking the time to do this instead of working."

"Well…" Cyril hesitated. Claude let the silence be, and Cyril relented. "I wanna do more for Lady Rhea. Working around the monastery is great and all, but I don't want to be stuck sitting around if she's in danger."

Claude's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Are you planning to become a Knight of Seiros?"

"I probably can't get that high up in the church, but I don't have to be a knight to protect Lady Rhea." Cyril set the bow like Shamir had taught him, and drew with two fingers. The bow creaked, as if whining in discomfort.

The arrow he fired landed at the edge of the target.

Cyril flinched. He wished Claude hadn't seen that.

But when he chanced a glance, Claude's cool gaze was directed only at him. "What?"

"I was just thinking," Claude said, a smile spreading on his lips. "For the bow, there's no one better than Shamir, but if you're interested in learning anything else, I'd recommend the new professor."

"You mean Professor Byleth?" The only thing Cyril knew of the expressionless new professor was that apparently Lady Rhea was quite fond of them. Other than that, the only interaction they had shared was when Byleth had greeted everyone they'd seen in the monastery. It had been odd to see the stone faced teacher that looked no older than the students saying "hello" and nothing more, over and over again.

Claude nodded. "If you haven't heard, they've decided to teach the Golden Deer house, and I've seen them fight first hand. Trust me, it's really something. If you're interested, I can put in a request for them to teach you with the rest of the class."

"I'm not a student," Cyril said, narrowing his eyes.

"Shamir's an employee of the church, the professor's an employee of the church," Claude shrugged. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is that I'd rather not be stuck in a classroom full of people who hate me." He could hardly understand why Claude did.

"It's not as bad as you might think," Claude said. "Most of them are more curious about you than anything. Hilda's not too bad compared to her father, but I could tell her to stay away from you if it came to it. And Lorenz... he'll talk...and unfortunately I can't stop his tongue permanently." A beat. "At least not without some dire consequences. _ But _ I wouldn't let it get any further than talk."

It was odd. Just the previous school year, he had been darting around shadows trying to stay out of the Golden Deer house leader's sight, and now the current one was offering him the protection only his status could give. 

It was too odd, even if Claude was feeling the pull of blood.

Cyril shook his head. "No. Shamir's enough."

"Hmm. Well, the offer will stand if you ever decide to take it." The smile was still there, but from up close, Cyril could see how its glow was like the cold light of a firefly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's not Claude if he's doesn't have equal measures of genuine compassion and questionable manipulation.


	6. Sincerity

He loved the mornings just after the ringing of the eighth bell the most.

It was difficult to see Lady Rhea during any other time of the day, but that window between the eighth and ninth bell always had a sliver of time that was for him and him alone. Some days, Lady Rhea was too busy to spare much more than fifteen minutes, but other than the days that she was not present at the monastery at all, she always found some time.

Today was a good day. Flayn had apparently made biscuits for Lady Rhea, and though they were too salty for his liking, it meant taking a meal with Lady Rhea. Cyril took small bites, picking at the slightly too soft dough to make it last longer.

"Shamir tells me you've learned a new style of archery," Lady Rhea said, voice as soft and soothing as a cool spring balm. Cyril was happy to listen to it, until he realized with a start that Lady Rhea expected a reply.

"O-oh, it's not new. It's how I used to shoot. I'm still gonna practice real hard with Shamir's style! But I thought if there was something I could already do, I'd practice that too."

"My, it seems you're getting busier every day. If you have other things to attend to, there's no need to push yourself working for the monastery."

Cyril nearly choked on his undercooked biscuit. "What?! No, not at all! I've still got lots of time to work. I'll earn my keep!"

"Is that so?" The thin chains and tassels of her headdress chimed as Lady Rhea tilted her head. "Say, how old are you Cyril? Ten? Eleven?"

"I'm fourteen," Cyril muttered, flushing. He had always cursed how round his face was. It gave him the appearance of a soft, helpless child.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. "Fourteen! I _ have _ lost track of time. You'll be old enough to enter the officer's academy in two years."

It was Cyril's turn to be surprised. "The officer's academy?"

"Wasn't it your intention to become a student?"

"O-of course not." He thought of being trapped in a room for hours on end, unable to hide or slip away. Nobles eyeing him with suspicion at every turn. Could he even sit through a lesson properly? He had been too embarrassed to admit he had never learned to read, but that wasn't something that could be hidden if he formally joined a class. "It's not like I could afford it anyways."

"You've done more than enough for the monastery these past few years to attend." Lady Rhea gave him a gentle smile, and the force of it almost made Cyril choke on his biscuit again. "I will not force you if you truly do not desire it, but the school's door will be open to you any time. I believe it could be a good opportunity for you. Please, consider it."

"R-right," Cyril stuttered, head dropping to hide his battle to keep the tears back in his eyes. He refused to look even more like a child than he already did.

Seteth came in not too long after that, and Cyril took the opportunity to make a fast retreat once Lady Rhea finished rattling off some tasks that needed to be done in the monastery. 

So fast he ran right into Claude.

"Whoa, working hard as usual, aren't you, Cyril?"

Cyril gave his eyes a quick wipe with his hands. "Just working normally."

"Hmm." Claude's gaze flickered down the hall to Lady Rhea's audience chamber before refocusing on Cyril. "Don't sell yourself short. Rhea assigns you tasks every day, doesn't she? So many people in the church, but you're probably one of the few who can claim to speak to her every day. You should be proud of that."

Proud. As if it was something to flaunt, rather than a candle of warmth to hold close. Cyril felt a twist of annoyance. "Is that all you wanted to say? I'm busy."

That did nothing to wipe that meaningless smile off of Claude's face at all, although Cyril expected that by this point. Nothing deterred Claude. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Rhea." 

Why did he never refer to her with the proper title?

"There's so much we don't know about her--"

Picking her apart like she was something to dissect rather than admire.

"--but I thought maybe you--"

"Yeah, I know lots about _ Lady _ Rhea, but why would I tell you anything about her?" Cyril snapped.

Claude's hands flew up in mock hurt. "So cold. Think about who you're talking to."

Cyril narrowed his eyes. Up until now, Claude had been oddly helpful by the standards of any noble at the academy, but especially as the Golden Deer's house leader. Was it provisional after all, to be removed as a threat? Just a carrot before the inevitable stick that all the other house leaders had used against him? 

Well, if Claude thought that something so small would be enough to make him do anything that could hurt Lady Rhea, he was dead wrong.

"And who are you to me?"

Claude's expressions had always been carefully controlled, as if he were an actor playing the role of Claude von Riegan, and each person he spoke to was just another character in the story he was crafting, spewing the lines that he fed them. Cyril had already watched Claude spin the situation in his favor enough times to recognize that much.

And now for the first time since that initial glimmer of shock when he had made eye contact with Claude that day in the audience chamber, Claude's act faltered. Suddenly, he looked more real than he ever had before.

"You...don't know who I am?" Claude said blankly.

Cyril blinked. He had been expecting threats or perhaps some reassertion of the power that Claude held over him. Instead, he got a question that made no sense. "Of course I know who you are. You're Claude. Leader of Golden Deer."

Each sentence drew more confusion from Claude, and Cyril's annoyance dissolved into bewilderment. What kind of answer was he expecting?

Claude shook his head, and the confusion fell off to give way to a neutral expression. He was observing again. "Never mind that. Tell me, don't you ever miss your homeland?"

"_ Almyra _?"

Fields trampling under the thundering messes of horses and men. The ebb and flow of war lines, all laid flat in those stretching plains, clear for all to see. The fire when the tide of it rushed over the city. The bitter ashes once the line of war had passed away, leaving behind broken homes and lives like seashells washed upon the beach.

"Yes, Almyra," Claude said, expression still unreadable. "Judging by your face, I doubt the answer is yes."

Cyril wasn't sure what kind of expression he was making, but he made an effort to make it settle into something he thought was neutral. He remembered what Lorenz had said about Godfrey von Riegan.

Most likely, Claude had lived all his life in Fodlan, only hearing prettified stories of Almyra from his servant mother. What was he expecting? Affirmation? Claude didn't even know how good he had it to have never stepped foot in a place like that.

"Life was harder for me there than it's ever been here," Cyril said bitterly. "My parents died in the war, and there was nobody who would look after me." 

A lump grew in Cyril's throat. He had seen them every day, until he hadn't. Thought that they would always protect him, until they couldn't. He almost wanted to kick the child he was back then for thinking so naively that the brittle shell covering his life was an invincible shield. For not grasping every moment he had with his mother and father.

"Had to grow up real quick after that," Cyril managed to choke out. "The king didn't do anything to help. Almyra didn't do anything. So I survived by being smart."

"I'm sorry," Claude said quietly.

Cyril swallowed the last of the lump in his throat away. "It's not like it's your fault."

"No," Claude said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. It was a tactless question, and I should've known your answer. Known that you suffered without you telling me."

Cyril sighed. "I get sad or mad when I think about it, but I'm used to it. I don't mind."

"Even still, I apologize for being careless." Claude placed a hand over his heart and bowed low.

It wasn't an apology that sought forgiveness--Cyril had already given it--and yet Claude bowed so low. The king had seemed so far away back then, and Cyril had felt so small, and yet a few words and Claude bowed so low.

Of all things, this was the oddest thing he had seen from Claude, but for once, Cyril was certain that it was a good odd.

Even if the sincerity was rather overwhelming. "Th-thanks," Cyril said as Claude straightened. "You know...if the king of Almyra was like you, maybe things would've been better. Or...maybe the king had too much to worry about to think of someone like me...but that's not much of an excuse."

"No, it's not," Claude said with a small smile. "If I ever meet the king of Almyra, I'll give him a stern talking to on your behalf."

At that, Cyril laughed.

"You're really on the other side now, aren't you?" Claude said.

And at that, the laugh died. Claude's smile wasn't his usual mask-like quirk of the mouth. It seemed sad, although Cyril wasn't certain what there was to be sad about.

Claude shook his head again and the sorrow fell away. "Well, crossing the line isn't necessarily a bad thing. I hope you find a good life here."

Without another word, Claude walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not shown since this is entirely Cyril's pov: Claude running back to his room to write an angry letter to his dad.
> 
> Cyril's got a lot to work through. I will be using some of the supports, or at least referencing them. This will be hopefully be canon compliant, just kind of....molded differently.


	7. Reminder

Cyril didn't see Claude in the month that followed, or any of the Golden Deer house for that matter. 

A lord in the kingdom had started a rebellion against the church. They had been quickly crushed by the knights of Seiros, but news of it sent shockwaves throughout the monastery nonetheless. Despite it being kingdom business, or perhaps because of it, the Golden Deer house had been sent to deal with the aftermath of the rebellion.

Cyril had seen the lord's son in the church as he cleaned. The silver haired boy had been staring blankly at the statue of the goddess. Praying for what? For his father's safety, or for the church to find him? Cyril didn't know much about the goddess, but he found it hard to believe that she would turn her back on the ones who worshipped her the most ardently.

Cyril thought the lord a fool. He had been crushed easily and now, he had left his son at the mercy of the very people he had tried to fight. Lady Rhea was too kind to ever allow harm to befall the son for his father's actions, but if the lord was willing to wage war, then it was impossible for him to have believed in Lady Rhea's kindness.

The lord had picked war and thought nothing of his son. Of his people who would go to their meaningless deaths.

That part at least, didn't change between Fodlan or Almyra.

For a land that had been derided as cowardly, Fodlan hadn't hesitated to go into a war with Almyra that lasted over one hundred years. One hundred years just for a thin strip of land to the east of the Fodlan's Throat. 

Neither side had cared much about the fertile soil being useless without a farmer able to till it. Neither side had cared much about the border towns being destroyed, uprooted, rebuilt, and destroyed again, each time more fragile than the last.

Of the five provinces of Almyra, it was Cyril's Khidr province that bore the costs of that war. After the initial failed invasion, the other four provinces had their attention drawn elsewhere and Khidr, bordering Fodlan, was left to deal with the aftermath that stretched longer than anyone expected.

Generation after generation, they kept throwing their lives away until even children that were meant served as apprentices to soldiers were forced to see battle themselves. If there was some grander scheme behind the endless battles, Cyril hadn't and still couldn't see it. 

He supposed the renown was good for the soldiers that didn't die. The people of Cyril's province had been fond of repeating how the current king of Almyra had started out as a minor general hailing from a branch family of the province's ruling house. He had been chosen as their province's king candidate only after the previous four had died in the war. But his tactical prowess in the war with Fodlan lead the council to select him, the fifth king candidate of Khidr, over the first candidate of Kamangir.

They had sounded proud that someone from their province had managed to become king, but even back then, Cyril couldn't understand what glory could be found when the throne was reached by climbing atop a pile of corpses.

The war had officially ended seven years ago after thirteen years of failed attempts at treaties. The end came too late for his parents, and the change from war to peacetime too slow for him. 

Tensions flared, skirmishes were fought, and children like him with nowhere else to go apprenticed themselves to the army. Being a child wasn't an excuse to not earn his keep.

He still couldn't decide if it was mercy or cruelty that the Gonerils took those children during battle rather than running them through with their swords. Mercy that they weren't killed, cruelty that they weren't allowed to escape.

The Gonerils had wholeheartedly called it mercy even when they beat the words from his mouth and made him earn his keep in a place he never wished to be. It was a wonderful mercy, they said, to be given a taste of what life could have been if the Alliance had successfully annexed Khidr and rejoined the land blessed by the goddess to the rest of Fodlan.

Lady Rhea had called it cruelty.

She had offered him passage through Fodlan's Locket after taking him from the Gonerils, but there was nothing left for him in Almyra.

He couldn't be certain of whether or not the goddess truly took offense to Almyrans controlling a piece of her blessed land, but he liked to believe that the goddess was less spiteful than that. After all, Lady Rhea had offered to allow him a place at the monastery, and he figured that she preached the goddess better than anyone.

Steady meals, quiet nights, and a guarantee of tomorrow. A guarantee of someone waiting for him in that tomorrow.

Three years of peace had made him complacent. Lonato was just a reminder that somewhere, some noble would keep thinking something was worth starting a war over.

And Cyril would never forgive them for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this fic also an excuse for me to make up headcanons about Almyra?? Yeah...a little bit...
> 
> But I always thought Cyril had high potential to embody "The nobles start the war, but it’s the commoners who spill their blood first." Which coincidentally was said by Claude during the Lonato rebellion, so I figured now was a good time as any to dig into Cyril's feelings about all that.


	8. Request

The panic only grew after the Golden Deer return from the kingdom.

News of the impending assassination attempt on Lady Rhea spread throughout the monastary despite Seteth's best efforts to keep it quiet. Cyril saw white and felt the heat of panic spread to the tips of his fingers when whispers of it first reached his ears.

The wanton wave of deaths in battle weren't enough to satisfy the ones behind the rebellion. They wanted to make sure the tides of their war would rush in and carry away the one most precious to him. 

Cyril threw aside his broom and ran to the clerics whispering.

"Who's after Lady Rhea?!"

"Huh?" One of the clerics eyed Cyril uncomfortably. "That's...it's none of your concern. The church will ensure Lady Rhea's safety." He tugged at the sleeve of the cleric accompanying him and the two quickly shuffled away.

After a moment of surprise, Cyril ran after them.

"--a child isn't he?" he heard one of the clerics say.

"An _ Almyran _ child," the other hissed. "An assassination attempt against the archbishop is nearly as blasphemous as striking against the goddess herself. Only a heathen would dare--"

He never finished his sentence. Cyril grabbed the back of his robes and pulled harshly. The cleric made a choking noise as the force of it spun him around to face Cyril.

"I'd never hurt Lady Rhea!" Cyril screamed, the sound of it ripping at his throat as it clawed its way out of his mouth to echo along the monastery hall. "Don't you dare, don't you dare--!"

He felt someone pulling him away from the cleric and saw the cleric jerk his robes back, face shifting from shock to indignation. The cleric's mouth moved but the words were lost in the white haze of Cyril's rage.

It wasn't until the other cleric had dragged the man out of sight that the haze cleared and Cyril could hear Shamir calling his name. He stilled, now noticing that the arms holding him back belonged to her.

"Finally calmed down?" Shamir said, sounding slightly tired as she released her grip on him. 

"Yeah," Cyril said dully. His throat felt raspy. "...how could he think that? After everything Lady Rhea's done for me, what do they think I am?"

"It's Fodlan, we're not from Fodlan. That's how people are here. You know that."

"I know. But...I'm _ tired _." Cyril swallowed and turned to look at Shamir. Her face was as neutral as ever, and Cyril was glad to see no judgement in her eyes. "What's going to happen to Lady Rhea?"

"Nothing's going to happen," Shamir said firmly, "because the Knights of Seiros will never let anything happen to her."

Cyril was silent, and Shamir sighed. "Follow me. If you want to know the facts, it's best to go to a source rather than rely on people who only hear rumors."

"A source?" Cyril said.

Shamir nodded. "The Golden Deer class were there when the note was found. They'll be helping the knights protect Lady Rhea."

The Golden Deer again. He supposed he shouldn't be too surprised. Lady Rhea thought highly of the professor who lead the class. It was natural that she would turn to Professor Byleth when the Knights of Seiros needed additional help.

Cyril's fingers curled into his palms as he followed Shamir. One day, Lady Rhea would depend on him too.

But that day still felt so far away.

She still looked at him like he was the helpless child that clung to her skirts the entire journey from Goneril territory to the monastery. He was loath to admit it, but there wasn't much he had done to prove otherwise. Even if he was there when someone came to kill Lady Rhea, there was little he could do other than fling himself between her and whatever sword was pointed at her.

But the threat was here _ now _ . The time to help Lady Rhea was _ now _.

And he was still too weak to get involved.

Unless he joined the Golden Deer.

The thought flashed briefly before he tried to shake it off. The Gloucester noble's sneering would be unbearable, and the Goneril noble would be unavoidable. Beyond that, he was too young to enter the academy. This was impossible.

But Claude had offered him a place if he asked.

Having seen the new professor in combat training, although Shamir was by far superior with the bow, Cyril had to admit that he was impressed. He had watched half a lesson, wondering how good the professor was with an axe, before he caught himself staring, the firewood beside him unchopped.

Cyril swallowed. He was beginning to see the appeal in trapping himself in a classroom full of people who hated him.

He could do it for Lady Rhea, and Claude had promised to keep the worst of them from him. Cyril wasn't sure about much regarding Claude, but at the very least, he trusted Claude to do that.

"--more training if you have the time, Hilda."

Cyril jolted at Claude's voice. They had already arrived at the Golden Deer's classroom.

The students were gathered at Claude's side at the classroom's center, circling the professor. Cyril's heart thudded as he paused at the doorway.

"Secret meeting, professor?" Shamir said, walking into the encirclement without hesitation. Cyril shook himself and hastily followed after her. Claude waved, eyes following Cyril's approach. The rest of the Golden Deer stared as well, and Cyril found himself stopping behind Shamir.

Byleth turned. Their face was even more neutral than Shamir's, so much so that the expression fell off the cliff of neutrality and plunged into non-existence. Cyril had always known they were young, but seeing them standing next to their students made it even more obvious.

"We haven't met," Shamir said. "I'm Shamir."

Byleth tilted their head ever so slightly and their eyes darted to meet Claude's.

Claude gave a wide smile. "She's one of the knights of Seiros," he said, stepping to Shamir's side. "The best archer in the monastery by a long mile, so try to get me some supplemental lessons if you can, Teach."

Claude reached around Shamir and pulled Cyril to the front. Cyril yelped and gave Claude a small glare that was, as expected, ignored. "And _ this _ little go getter is--"

"Cyril!" he said forcefully, stepping forward. If he was going to enter the class, then he would need to make a better impression. "I work for Lady Rhea, and I'm Shamir's apprentice."

"You work for Rhea?" Byleth asked evenly. Cyril couldn't read anything from the response.

He supposed he might as well cover everything. "Yes! I do all sorts of work. I can chop wood, and clean the stables, and bale hay, and--"

"Whoa, what's with this all of a sudden?" Claude said. He gave Cyril an inquisitive look. "Not that it's a bad thing to take pride in your work, but…"

"Professor Byleth, I want to join your class!" Cyril shouted.

He had a sinking feeling that this was the absolute wrong moment to ask that from the stunned faces that immediately snapped to give him their full attention. Even Shamir had lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Claude looked absolutely giddy, seemingly as excited as Cyril was nervous.

Byleth was the only one who didn't seem to react at all. "What would you like to learn?"

"Professor, you can't be seriously considering this!" the Gloucester noble protested. "The boy is not a student of Garreg Mach!"

"Buuuut he is a knight's apprentice," Claude said. "As students, we get plenty of supplemental lessons from the knights. Why shouldn't the knight's apprentices get some supplemental lessons from the professors?"

"The privilege of instruction at this institution is reserved for those who have paid their dues and passed the examinations that determine they can meet the bare minimum." The Gloucester noble shot an angry wave towards Cyril. "_ Look _ at this boy, he is not at a level where the instruction would benefit--"

"What, because he doesn't look rich?" a short haired girl said flatly, glare sending the Gloucestor noble a step backwards. "If he's good enough to be apprenticed to a Knight of Seiros, then he's good enough to pass whatever paper tests you filled out to get in."

Cyril flushed at that, hoping wildly that the Gloucestor noble wouldn't force him to take a written exam in front of the entire class.

"Cyril's a hard worker," Shamir said. "I've got no complaints about him as an apprentice."

All of Cyril's fears scattered, and for a moment, he forgot his request to Byleth. 

Apprentice. He had called himself that all this time, but it was the first time that Shamir had referred to him as such. His eyes stung, but he wouldn't cry right after Shamir had given her recommendation.

Cyril bowed. "Please! I understand that I won't be part of the class officially, but I promise to learn and help however I can!"

"You're welcome any time," Byleth said.

Shamir gave Byleth a nod. "And of course, if you need anything, ask. Supplemental lessons for your students included. Now then, regarding the plot against Lady Rhea and your class's duties for this month..."

Three months into the school year, and he had somehow made his way into the last place he thought he'd want to be. Dread filled him as he watched the Gloucestor noble's disdainful gaze slip from him and the Goneril noble leaned towards him, a sickly sweet smile on her face.

"You'll be fine."

Cyril jolted slightly. He glanced to his side to see Claude smiling down on him. A smile with warmth. 

Cyril let out a breath and shifted his attention back to Shamir and Byleth's discussion.

He supposed he would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I don't hate Lorenz, it's just early part 1.
> 
> I really appreciate all the comments so far! It's fun to see what things people are picking up from this.


	9. Confirmation

Seteth had insisted that Cyril didn't need to work while attending classes, but Cyril refused. He spent the rest of the day running about the monastery, finding church workers to swap working shifts with him until he could devote his early mornings to Shamir's training, late morning and afternoon to instruction with Byleth and the Golden deer, and nights to working. That left little time for sleeping, but how else would he be able to make sure that the stables were cleaned properly? That enough wood was chopped for monastery activities?

"Just make sure you don't fall asleep on a sword," Shamir said with a sigh.

"I-I wouldn't!" Cyril cried.

Shamir shook her head. "We'll see soon enough. Good luck."

Cyril clutched that luck close to him as he walked to the Golden Deer classroom. It felt odd to be entering it during instruction hours. Out of habit, he peeked over the doorframe, even knowing that it would be full of students.

Claude stood near the center of the room. A small group surrounding him, talking and laughing. The tall, musclebound student he had run into before was part of that group, clapping a lithe boy on the back with enough force that the boy shuddered like a twig and almost dropped his glasses. 

The Goneril noble was next to Claude too, chattering without care as she braided the blue hair of the girl seated on the chair in front of her. Claude had an amused expression when he answered to something that the Goneril noble said.

If Claude's mother was an Almyran servant in the Riegan household, she most likely got there through the Gonerils. Still, Claude could smile lightly at the Goneril noble in a way Cyril knew he couldn't. Perhaps that was the difference that having Riegan blood made.

The short-haired girl that had defended him the day before sat next to the blue-haired girl. One foot was crossed over her knee and a bow was balanced between her leg and arm as she cleaned the curve of the bow. Her attention was largely focused on her task, but occasionally she would laugh at something that was said.

The Gloucester noble was already seated. His notebooks and pens were laid out neatly in front of him and he flipped through the pages of a textbook, seemingly oblivious to the chatter in the center of the room.

The only other student that sat apart was a girl with long white hair seated on a bench in the front of the room. She was scribbling furiously into a notebook and a small stack of books laid open beside her.

"Good morning."

Cyril turned quickly to see Byleth nodding at him. "M-morning."

Byleth gestured towards the classroom. Cyril blinked.

"That means come in, Cyril," Claude said with a twinkle in his eye that made Cyril well aware that Claude had known he was watching the whole time. "Haven't you been standing there long enough?"

Cyril bristled a bit, but walked into the room, doing his best to ignore the fact that every student had now turned to look at him. At least Byleth was following close behind him. That felt a little reassuring.

Claude stepped forward to meet him halfway. He placed a hand on Cyril's shoulder and swiveled so that he stood behind Cyril, facing the rest of the Golden Deer.

"Alright, let's do some quick introductions!" Claude said. 

The remaining chatter stopped. The Gloucester noble shut his book. The white haired girl set aside her pen. The blue-haired girl's braid was tucked into place with one last flourish by the Goneril noble.

The focus was on Claude. Cyril wondered if they noticed that they all leaned slightly towards him as he spoke. "You've all got it easy. This is Cyril." He patted Cyril's shoulders for emphasis. "Now then, Cyril, you've got it harder."

"That's Leonie." The short haired girl gave a small nod.

"Marianne." For a brief moment, Cyril made eye contact with the blue haired girl, but her gaze dropped immediately.

"Hilda--"

"Hi again!" the Goneril noble chirped. This time, Cyril was the one who dropped eye contact first.

"Raphael," Claude continued, gesturing to the musclebound student who was grinning the widest grin Cyril had ever seen.

"Ignatz." The boy with glasses jolted slightly and gave a small bow.

"Lysithea." The white haired girl had slight smile on her face as she nodded. Cyril frowned. What was she so pleased about?

"Lorenz--"

"Lorenz Hellman _ Gloucester _!"

"I'm pretty sure he knew your family name already," Claude said flatly. "And that's everyone. You got it all, Cyril?"

"Ummm…"

"Don't worry about it. You've got the rest of the year to learn." Claude gave Cyril's shoulder another reassuring pat before lifting his chin to shout over the heads of the students that stood between them and Byleth. "Hey Teach! Let's have him sit next to Lysithea!"

"Sure," Byleth said.

The white haired girl didn't look displeased. She was barely any taller than him as well, and looked closer in age than the other students. Cyril relaxed slightly. This was doable.

"You take good care of Cyril here, Lysithea," said Claude. "You kids have to stick together."

Red flared on the girl's face faster than Cyril could blink. "Claude, are you unable to restrain yourself for a single morning?!"

Lorenz sighed and shook his head. "Enough of this, we've tarried long enough. The ninth bell rung several minutes ago."

Lysithea huffed but refrained from rising any further to Claude's baiting smirk. She gestured for Cyril to follow her to the front bench. "So...how old are you, Cyril?"

"Uhhh, fourteen?"

"Is that so?" Her small smile turned into a bright beam as she drew herself up. "You know, if you ever have any trouble following along in class, I would be happy to help you."

Once again, Cyril wondered why she looked so pleased. "Umm...sure?"

"Of course!" Lysithea chirped cheerfully. "It's only to be expected for older students to help the younger ones."

As much as Cyril was loathe to admit it, the lesson was difficult to follow. He felt like he had been thrown onto a wyvern without a saddle and told to fly. Tactics, calculating positions for ballistas, placements of cavalry…

Cyril's head spun. The lessons weren't what he expected at all. He had wanted to learn how to swing an axe, maybe some sword techniques. During his apprenticeship in the army, he had just been pointed in a direction to run. These were lessons meant for those who had pointed him to his destination, not for those who would follow the orders. 

The other students were busy writing down the professor's lecture. Of course he had failed to bring a pen and paper. It was pointless for him to do so, but that made him feel all the more alone among the scritch scratch of pens. Cyril suppressed the urge to squirm in his seat.

At last the lecture ended. 

"Ugh, training," he heard Hilda whine from the other side of the room. "Professor it's so hot today, can't I sit out?"

"No," Byleth said, sweeping past her to exit the classroom.

Hilda groaned again, but Cyril almost wanted to sigh in relief. Training with a weapon he could handle.

His relief must've been obvious anyways, because Lysithea gave a short laugh when she glanced at him. "It was a rather difficult lecture wasn't it?"

"A little bit…" Cyril admitted.

"Hmph, let's be honest now why don't we?" He looked up to watch Lorenz approach. "You were practically staring at the wall the entire time. As expected, you couldn't follow along at all, could you?"

Cyril flushed, but met his disdain with a glare. "At least I was paying attention! What, were you just watching me the whole time?"

Lysithea laughed, and that made Lorenz's light blush turn to stuttering words.

Claude leaned forward from the desk behind Cyril's to pat Lorenz's shoulder with mock sympathy. "There, there. If you'd like, you can take a copy of my notes later."

"I've seen your notes, and they are indecipherable," Lorenz said, shrugging off Claude's hand.

"What's got you so interested in Cyril?" Claude asked. "Don't tell me you're doubling back to your theory that I'm Almyran _ again _."

"Oooh, I remember that," Lysithea said with a giggle. "He was so convinced about Godfrey having an affair with a servant, but it was your mother who was a Riegan."

Claude shook his head. "I _ still _ can't believe you all thought Godfrey was my father for two months. I must say, I much prefer your current theory that my mother ran off with a man from Morfis, Lorenz." His lips twitched into a smirk. "Unless, of course, Cyril sitting in this classroom has somehow convinced you that my mother left Fodlan for Almyra while we were in the middle of a _ war _ with them. All so that she could have a torrid affair with my father."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Lorenz snapped.

It was like a one two punch. First hit was that Claude's mother was not Almyran or in Fodlan. Second was that Lorenz no longer thought that Claude was Almyran. 

Perhaps it was colored by the false assumptions he had held for three months, but Cyril couldn't see how it was possible that Claude _ wasn't _ half Almyran. His features, his braid, the ease with which he shot his bow in the Almyran style...

Claude caught Cyril's frown from the corner of his eye, and his smile set more coolly as his gaze went back to Lorenz.

"As I stated yesterday, attending the officer's academy is simply not a task that any commoner can complete successfully," Lorenz said, collecting himself. "I was simply confirming the fact that he was wholly unprepared."

Before Cyril could retort, Lorenz placed a notebook and pen in front of him. "At least be prepared with the proper materials." Then with what dignity he managed to collect, Lorenz left the classroom for the training grounds.

"You can take a copy of my notes later," Lysithea said before following Lorenz.

Cyril touched the soft leather cover of the notebook. Simple as it looked, Cyril could tell it was high quality. Even the edges of the pages had been sanded down to a silky smoothness, a far cry from the scrap paper he had occasionally used to draw on. It was nice, even if rather useless to him.

"Ready to go?"

At Claude's voice, Cyril blinked away his reverie. It was only him and Claude in the classroom now.

Cyril narrowed his eyes. "...you _ are _half-Almyran."

Claude laughed. "You really think that?"

For a moment, the laugh made the idea seem ridiculous. It was so light, so careless. Gently mocking him for a wild idea with no root to ground it.

Cyril shook himself. "It's been awhile since I was there, but I know what an Almyran looks like."

"I know you do," Claude said. His laughter had stopped, but the ghosts of it remained as a smile. "I appreciate you keeping it quiet."

Cyril's heart leapt, as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted. An odd weight that Cyril hadn't noticed at all until it was gone. In its place, an inexplicable tangle of excitement took root. There was nothing to say, yet he felt there was _ everything _ to say, but nothing in sentences that he could give form to.

All that came out after several long heartbeats was, "How do they not know?"

"It's not like most of them know much about the world outside Fodlan," Claude shrugged. "Foreign is foreign. It all blends together. You'd be surprised how much you can get away with by encouraging people's assumptions of what's impossible."

"But...Fodlan was at war with Almyra for one hundred years!" Cyril protested.

Claude gave a low laugh, gaze suddenly distant. "That just makes it all the more unthinkable."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude's ploy is basically weaponizing the Cassandra Truth.


	10. Unwanted Aid

As expected, attending classes and working in the evenings was exhausting. He hadn't fallen asleep on a sword yet, but Cyril had a feeling he would before the month was over if he wasn't careful. For the third time that evening, Cyril shook himself in an effort to throw off the encroaching desire to sleep, but like briar to cloth, it clung and refused to let go. With a grunt, Cyril lifted the sack onto his back. The sooner he finished moving them up to the storage room, the sooner he could go to sleep. 

The balance must have been off, because suddenly, Cyril felt himself tipping backwards. 

He landed with a dull thud on the mercifully soft sack, the shock of the impact momentarily dispelling his desire to sleep.

"A-are you ok?"

Cyril tilted his head back to see Ignatz's face hovering over his. He ignored the hand held out to help him stand. "Yup, just fine."

"Do you need help with that?" Ignatz said, still hovering.

"Nah, this is my job." Cyril waved Ignatz off as he pulled the sack onto his back again. "I can do it myself." Another yawn threatened to leave Cyril's mouth and he clamped his mouth shut, hoping that the puffing of his cheeks wouldn't give him away.

Ignatz circled around to stand in front of Cyril. "B-but it'd be faster if we worked together--"

"Alright, what do ya want?" Cyril said, irritation edging further and further into his voice the more he thought of his bed. 

"H-huh?" Ignatz blinked owlishly, his round glasses only magnifying the circles his eyes had widened into. "I j-just wanted to know if you wanted help--"

"And I said no." The sack dropped to the ground with a thud. "But you're still here bothering me. So just tell me what you really want."

Ignatz flushed red and his tongue tied itself into a spluttering mess. Cyril was about to snap the question again when Ignatz finally managed to untwist his tongue. "I-I had been meaning to ask you about Almyra."

" _ Almyra _ ?" Cyril's lips curled into a grimace.

The previous year, the Golden Deer had surrounded him and dragged him out to the fishing pier in the middle of the night when they had found him cleaning the classroom. 

Six years out from the end of the war, it was only natural that the wounds of that time still festered, yet to scar. The war had taken someone's uncle, someone's mother, someone's elder sibling. Almyra had taken them, and Cyril was Almyra. 

One fool decided to start a war, and one hundred years later, that whim took his family, his freedom, and converged on five students pushing him into the depths of the lake. They had asked him at length about Almyra, but they hadn't really expected to listen to his answers. He had recanted any loyalty, he had told them he hated it, but they didn't believe him, even when from the deepest part of him, every drop of venom in his words was true.

He hated the land of battle hungry fools that would leave him no peace.

Ignatz was looking at him eagerly.

"Nothing about that place worth talking about," Cyril said bitterly.

Ignatz's mouth dropped open, taken aback. "But it must be fascinating! The people, the buildings, the flowers--" 

So. Ignatz didn't believe him either. The tired irritation burst into anger. "There's  _ nothing _ worthwhile there!"

"Th-there must've been some things you enjoyed--"

"You just don't get it! I might be stuck in that classroom with you, but it doesn't mean I'm gonna talk about things I hate to entertain you." Cyril swung the sack onto his back, and the arc of the swing made Ignatz step back. "I'm gonna go. Shoulda done that already."

Ignatz's face was pale as he stuttered for words, and the fumbling only put extra irritation in Cyril's steps as he walked away. He heard a stumbling "s-sorry…" trail off in the distance.

His irritation almost made him miss Claude leaning against the wall just before the stairwell, arms crossed and for once not smiling. The timing was too perfect. After only one week of attending classes with the Golden Deer, Cyril knew that Ignatz was too nervous to speak to him without prompting. 

Cyril glared, and Claude remained silent. "...you asked Ignatz to talk to me, didn't you?"

"Well," Claude drawled, "it's more like I decided to give him a push when I saw him hovering around."

"What'd ya do that for?" Cyril hissed.

"I hardly ever see you talk to anyone, and of all the students in the Golden Deer, Ignatz seemed the most eager to have a conversation with you." He sighed. "I know he made a misstep tonight, but I hope you'll give him another chance. He means to do well by you, and that's more than I can say for most of the people at this monastery."

"I don't need people to talk to me."

Claude pushed off from the wall with another sigh. Perhaps it was the torchlight's shadows thrown across Claude's face, but his gaze, usually calculating and sharp, seemed weathered and dull. "Cyril, no one can live alone. There'll always be those who hate you, but you need to know how to draw the line between them, and the ones who don't or could be persuaded otherwise."

Cyril snorted. The Golden Deer were beginning to accept Claude as their leader, but Cyril heard enough whispering around the monastery to know that rumors still dogged after Claude endlessly. The whispers had decreased in their hostility, but not in their volume.

"I don't think your persuading is working too well," Cyril said. "There are still a lot of people who don't like you."

Claude let out a short bark of a laugh. " _ Like _ me?" There was a mirthless twinkle in his eyes. "I don't hope for that much, Cyril. I just need them to prefer me alive. Life would be easier like that, don't you think?"

Cyril thought again of the frigid waters of the monastery lake, of the relief when Shamir had made the students scatter and dragged him back onto the pier. Frankly, the amount of clinging and sobbing he had done afterwards was shameful. He was always a little afraid that Shamir had only agreed to train him out of pity from that night.

But even so, Cyril knew from then that he would never hold another teacher over Shamir.

"Yeah...it'd be easier," he admitted quietly. "...you're really trying to force this Ignatz thing aintcha?"

"It's not just Ignatz. There are people who will reach their hands out to you if you're open to it."

"Or maybe they'd let go and let me fall."

"Then I'd be sure to catch you if that happens," Claude said. "I can at least promise you that."

"And why would you do that?" Cyril asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Because I'd like to see you make a good life for yourself here?" Claude tilted his head. "Is that so hard to believe?"

It wasn't difficult to believe, it was just terrifying to raise his hopes any further than he already had. Especially for someone who would leave in less than a year.

Cyril turned away, mouth dry. He shifted the sack on his back and stepped onto the stairwell.

And missed the step.

Cyril felt himself tip fowards, but only slightly before a pull from behind resettled him back on his feet.

"Wow, I wasn't expecting to have to catch you so soon," he heard Claude say with amusement.

Without warning, the sack was plucked out of his grip. Claude swung it over his shoulder and began to make his way up the stairs.

"H-hey, that's my job!" Cyril cried as he ran up to follow Claude.

"Yeah, yeah." Claude swatted Cyril's hands away from the sack. "Let me help. Just for tonight, alright?"

Watching Claude turn into the storeroom, Cyril had a distinct feeling that it wouldn't just be tonight that Claude forced his aid upon him, and he couldn't bring himself to feel too badly about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worst part about not just writing one long one chapter fic is that the issues don't get resolved in one reading. All this self hate is just sitting here. Unresolved.


	11. One Forward, One Back

About half the conversations he had with Ignatz for the next week involved Ignatz apologizing for his rudeness that night. Nice as it was to hear the first few times, it was off putting when the guilt seemed to jump from nowhere and grab Ignatz's ability to hold a conversation by the throat. Thankfully, Raphael would always pop up whenever the conversation became too awkward.

Raphael proved to be as friendly as his muscles were large. Although Cyril hoped to never be on the receiving end of one of his back claps, it was hard to complain too much when the time Cyril spent chopping wood was chopped in a quarter with Raphael's insistent assistance. Cyril had whined that it was his job and that he could finish it alone but Raphael had just laughed it off and said, "Claude told me you'd say that!" 

"And what else did Claude say?" Cyril had asked suspiciously.

"That I should ignore what you say and do it anyway."

If Claude planned to force him to interact with the Golden Deer...he was succeeding.

He found Leonie joining him at the bow range, often asking about Shamir and how he had convinced her to train him. Lysithea had begun to take on her role as a "senior student" with great verve and insisted on running through the confusing parts of Byleth's lecture with him after every class.

Lorenz, on the other hand, pretended he didn't exist. Most of the time. At other times, Cyril still caught an indignant stare from the corner of his eye, making it plenty clear that Cyril was an unwanted presence yet, but Lorenz held his tongue. If Claude had something to do with that too, Cyril was grateful that he had opted to tell Lorenz to leave Cyril alone. Lorenz was nice enough to Marianne and Ignatz, but he knew Lorenz hadn't the foggiest idea how to be kind to him.

Cyril was still uncertain what the point of it all was. The students would all be gone come this time next year, and there would be a new crop of eyes that would linger upon him with a mixture of loathing and exoticism. If Claude thought Cyril would exhaust himself every year trying to prove himself, he would be sorely disappointed. He had Lady Rhea. He had Shamir. That was plenty.

But, if Claude was insisting for this year, it wasn't too bad. Work went faster, and the conversation, stilted as it often was, sometimes was also a little interesting. Just a little.

The day before, he had even decided to accept the offer for help given by the silver haired boy from the Blue Lions. It was one he had rejected for the past month, and Ashe had nearly fallen over in shock.

Cyril stretched as he straightened from the folded position he had been holding to scrub a wyvern's legs. The wyvern gave a low growl, deep within her throat, and gently bumped her head against Cyril's lifted arm. With a soft laugh, he scratched at the wyvern's chin, taking a moment to indulge in the wyvern's reverberating purr before turning to leave the stable.

His good mood was immediately twisted out of shape when he spotted Hilda standing just outside the stable.

Hilda neither avoided nor sought him out. At times she would make a passing comment before fluttering away to the next thing that drew her attention, seemingly oblivious to the way his shoulders would square and his hands would close into a tight fist.

He had her full attention now. "Hey, Cyril!" she said, voice trilling on the last syllable of his name. "Are you working again?"

A sweet smile was on her face, but it was as pleasant to Cyril as fumes from a sugar rotted tooth. He could feel his stomach churning at the sight of her candy pink hair that marked her as a Goneril.

"Move," he managed to say. "You're in my way."

She let out a scandalized gasp. "Rude! I am _ not _ in your way!"

"You dodging work again?" It wouldn't surprise him. He had thought the Gonerils lazy, but Hilda had crafted her laziness into an artform that could be hung on the walls like the paintings the Gonerils used to make him dust.

"I'm here _ to _ work actually," Hilda huffed. "I just wanted to ask if you knew where the horse feed was."

Cyril felt a stab of panic. He was cleaning out the horse stables next. "I'll take care of it," he said quickly, praying that Hilda would not suddenly decide to be industrious.

"Wow! Really?" Hilda clapped her hands together happily. "Oh, Cyril, I knew I could count on you!"

"Sure," Cyril mumbled. Hilda continued to stand in front of him, blocking his exit from the stable. The pleased smile was still gracing her features, but one of her fingers had drifted over to her lips as if she was considering something. "...can you move?"

"Hmm? Oh well, you know you're really something Cyril," Hilda giggled. "You're always so hardworking, I almost forget that you're Almyran."

_ Don't think we'll let you laze about like a little beast. _

"My family guards the border, so they see lots of Almyrans. My father and brother won't tell me much about the battles themselves, but I _ do _ know that Almyrans will attack for no reason, break treaties, and lie…"

_ We lost three good platoons to those countrymen of yours this week. You ought to be grateful we didn't take your head for your mistake. _

"Just a bunch of shifty brutes, really."

_ I know you're lying you little-- _

"...uhhh, Cyril? Am I boring you?"

A hand waved before his eyes. The light wind from the movement stung his eyes, and Cyril suddenly became aware of how long he had failed to blink and of the stinging in his palms where his fingernails had pressed into his skin. Cyril blinked rapidly, forcing the daze to leave him. 

He was at Garegg Mach. There was only Hilda here, no other Goneril.

"I was talking about your people, you know," Hilda said.

"They're _ not _ my people!" Cyril shouted, outburst causing Hilda to jump. 

Hilda gave a nervous laugh. "I guess that's true. You're pretty normal. The archbishop was so angry when she saw that my uncle had Almyrans on the goddess' land, my uncle had to give them all up. But you're not like them at all, so it's no wonder she made an exception for you--"

Nothing cut through a haze like anger. "Lady Rhea didn't get mad on behalf of the _ goddess _," Cyril said through gritted teeth.

Hilda's brows furrowed, and her mouth opened to ask--

"Hey, Hilda! Teach is asking for you!" 

"Oh no, I forgot I had extra axe training. Ugh, I'm still going to be _ working _," Hilda whined, whatever query she had already forgotten in the face of this personal tragedy.

"Don't tell me you already pawned your work off on some poor sap," he could hear Claude say.

"Hey, Cyril _ likes _ working!"

"..._ Cyril _?"

Claude's face darted into view, poking out from just beyond the door frame of the stable. A flash of panic passed through his eyes before he smoothed his features into a smile for Hilda. "Don't keep Teach waiting then. Let's talk more later."

"I do _ not _ want to do this," Hilda said, complaining to her last even as she walked away.

Claude watched until Hilda had rounded the corner before rounding the corner himself into the stable. His face was drawn into a frown as he lifted one of Cyril's hands and unfurled the fingers. The frown deepened when he saw that Cyril's open palm was cut with bloody crescent moons.

"You should go see Manuela. I can finish up for you," Claude said. His gaze returned to Cyril's face. "...are you alright?"

It wasn't a question, not really. Cyril glared, and Claude's unchanging expression meant that he already knew the answer.

"No." Cyril snatched his hand from Claude's. "Did you tell her to talk to me?"

"Of course not--"

"Then tell her to stay away from me!"

He didn't want to be stuck in that classroom with her. He didn't want to see her during training. He didn't, he didn't…

Just until the end of the month. He would only need to hold out until the assassination business was over, then he could go back to avoiding them like he had planned from the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took awhile to write because I did not like that support, and this is still only half of it, but the other half didn't feel like it fit here so it'll be moved else where.


	12. Invaders

The day of the Rite of Rebirth came at once too soon and not soon enough. Too soon because he didn't feel at all ready to face the day when Lady Rhea might disappear, and not nearly soon enough because he was eager to hide away after Hilda had cornered him the day before.

Neither Claude nor Byleth believed that an assassination attempt was truly underway. They opted instead to believe that the threat was meant to be a distraction so that thieves may rob the Holy Mausoleum while Lady Rhea and the Knights of Seiros were gathered at the Goddess Tower. Cyril could hardly believe how lightly they were taking the threat, but neither could be swayed. They had at least allowed Cyril to guard Lady Rhea with the Knights of Seiros rather than forcing him to follow the rest of the Golden Deer to the Holy Mausoleum, but Cyril knew he was nothing compared to the professor when it came to a fight. 

Lady Rhea believed so strongly in Byleth, and yet at a critical time, Byleth was not there. 

His grip on his bow tightened as he surveyed the crowds gathered at the Goddess Tower. The church had thrown open its gates, and thousands upon thousands had gathered for the occasion, making the pilgrimage from all across Fodlan. In previous years, the sight of the crowds and the riverstream of light cast from their lanternglow was one that Cyril enjoyed observing from up in the rafters. This year, it only made him nervous. 

Even so, Lady Rhea insisted on standing upon the platform and refused to allow the Knights of Seiros to obstruct her as she lead the prayer. The faithful were on their knees, backs straight and hands clasped.

"From the star that shines so above us now, the goddess, Sothis, once descended upon this continent," Lady Rhea said. Her voice was warmer than all the light of the lanterns and Cyril couldn't help but feel some of his anxieties soothed from the sound of it. 

"She saw the destruction and chaos in the land and wept, for nothing could exist in such an accursed place. She breathed her purifying breath upon the land and gave what was barren, life. Lush forests, fertile fields, abundant wildlife--she gifted it all to the humans she created. All that her humans asked of her, she granted, and soon they were the most powerful creatures in Fodlan."

"When invaders poured into Fodlan from beyond, bearing the will of that which would desecrate all that the Goddess had created, she granted the strength for heroes to repel the evil threatening the lives of her faithful. The crests, the heroes relics; all were gifted to humanity."

"None received a greater gift than The King of Liberation. With the sword and crest crafted by the goddess, he drove the vile hordes from Fodlan and cast them back into the darkness from whence they came. The people of Fodlan were saved."

The atmosphere felt more fragile, more rigid, but Cyril was reminded of the founding festivals in Almyra. The centerpiece would always be a grand play about the hero king of Kamangir. He could no longer properly recall the details of the story, but he remembered that the king had fired an arrow with such power that it decimated the invaders that were threatening the existence of the five clans. The king disappeared after the arrow was fired, but the memory of that arrow united the clans into a nation. Even now, Almyra was gathered under a flag that bore an image of the final arrow.

Cyril supposed that would always be the same regardless of whether he was in Fodlan or Almyra. A hero king fending off invaders and giving hope to the people that the blessings of the land may yet remain theirs.

"But the goddess failed to consider that humans were too flawed to wield such gifts," Rhea continued, a rumble of shame and rage entering her voice. "The King of Liberation would turn his gift on the people of Fodlan and plunge the land into war. Although Saint Seiros was able to defeat Nemesis, the damage was done. The very gifts the goddess had granted humanity was used for destruction. Heartbroken, the goddess turned away from Fodlan and returned to the heavens."

There was quiet sniffling in the crowds, a contagious wave of despair and shame. Cyril thought he could see some of them shaking.

Lady Rhea dispelled it all with a gentle smile. "Still, the goddess watches over all, for her love for humanity was too great for her to abandon humanity completely, flawed as they were. Flawed, as _ we _ are. Her love surrounds us when a new breath of life is taken by one delivered safely into this world. Her love manifests in the fertile soil that yields all that we need to survive. Her love will receive us when we draw our last breath and return to her side."

"However, she will no longer alight in Fodlan until we have proven ourselves worthy of the love and devotion she has given us. So let us pray that with each passing day, we grow more aligned to her path, to her teachings, to--"

A messenger had run up to the platform. Lady Rhea continued to speak, but Cyril's attention snapped to the messenger immediately. Their shoulders were heaving from exertion as they whispered in Catherine's ear. Suddenly, Catherine's body went rigid, a flash of fury across her face. She motioned to a squadron of knights stationed at the fringes of the crowd surrounding the Goddess's Tower.

Cyril scrambled down from his perch and ran after the knights following Catherine. When he looked back, he could see Lady Rhea's gaze following after them, but she continued to speak to the crowd as if nothing had happened.

He recognized the path that they were taking. It would lead to the Holy Mausoleum where the Rite of Rebirth would end.

Claude and the professor had been right after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the goddess only created the humans of Fodlan, then what would that make the humans from outside of Fodlan under the teachings of the church?


	13. Appetite

In the end, he hadn't helped Lady Rhea at all. It was the rest of the Golden Deer who had stopped the Western Church from defiling the Holy Mausoleum--it was Byleth who had been of use to Lady Rhea when she needed it the most. He might as well have slept through the Rite of Rebirth.

It was pheasant roast day, but Cyril had no appetite, even as the normally wonderful scent of the dish wafted up his nose. His stomach was still twisting at the thought of staying with the Golden Deer. But what else could he do? The matter with the Western Church was far from settled, and he had no doubt that the Golden Deer would be sent out when the need arose. Aside from that, he clearly still had plenty to learn... 

"Oi, Cyril!" 

Cyril looked up to see Claude half standing at a table, arms waving in circles to motion Cyril closer. 

"Come on, don't be a stranger and eat with us!" Claude shouted.

Others in the dining hall were beginning to take notice of the commotion and look around for the recipient of Claude's loud conversation. Flushing, Cyril ducked his head and quickly walked over to the table where Claude was sitting.

Only Marianne, Raphael, Ignatz, and Lorenz were with him. Cyril let out a small sigh of relief as he sat down across from Claude and as far away from Lorenz as possible. At the very least, Claude knew better than to ask Cyril to join while Hilda was present. The stuffy purple haired noble was bearable as long as he showed no inclination to speak to Cyril, and Lorenz was content to act oblivious to Cyril's presence to talk animatedly to Marianne.

Ignatz scooted to make more room for him. "It's rare to catch you during regular meal times. I'm glad you're able to join us today."

"Eh, I eat when I have time," Cyril said with a shrug.

"Whaaaat?!" Raphael's voice boomed even when Cyril knew he didn't mean to make it so. "That's super unhealthy! No wonder you're so tiny!"

"I-I'm not tiny!" Cyril said, hating how his voice squeaked at the end.

Claude made a small choking noise and took a long swig from his mug. "Cyril, you're the same height as _ Lysithea _. You're teeny tiny. Itsy bitsy."

"Lysithea is older than me, so I'm not that short!"

"She's older than you by 8 months."

"Neither of you seem to sleep at regular times," Ignatz said, brow furrowed. "That could also be affecting both of you physically."

Cyril glowered. Even _ Ignatz _ was suggesting he was small. He stabbed at his pheasant as Raphael let out another loud exclamation. He scowled as he thought of how Lady Rhea still patted his head as if he was a child of eight years.

"Cyril, don't you want to grow big? And _ strong _ ? With muscles--" Raphael gestured to his impressive biceps. "--like _ this _?"

If he was built like Raphael...well, his swings would be stronger. His bow would fire farther. And...and...he'd look daunting! No one could ever think of him as a kid!

"...yes," Cyril muttered with a red face.

"Whoa, seriously?" Claude's eyes darted from Raphael to Cyril. "You want to look like _ that _? Good luck, because I don't think your bloodlines are on your side."

"Hey!"

"I mean no offense by it, I am in a similar predicament," Claude said. "My father is willowy and you know what, he can still swing an axe with the best of them. Just be realistic is all I'm saying."

"Aww, don't say it like that, Claude!" Raphael said. "You never know! Both my parents were short, right Ignatz?"

"Well, they were average," Ignatz replied when both Claude and Cyril gave him incredulous looks.

"The point is, you gotta start from somewhere. So come on, Cyril! You wanna grow don't you?"

Looking away from Claude's amused smile, Cyril nodded once. Raphael slapped the table and the dishes leapt and clacked from the reverberation. Marianne let out a small squeak that could've been a very good imitation of a mouse.

"_ Raphael _!" Lorenz cried, acknowledging the conversation on that side of the table for the first time.

"Oops, sorry about that." Raphael turned back to Cyril. "Alright, so let's get started now. First of all, go get another plate of pheasant."

"B-but I'm not done with this one--"

"One plate isn't going to cut it. You need more meat! Two now, and then another one right after afternoon training. You gotta eat even _ more _ meat while your muscles are all warmed up because that's how they build themselves. And for breakfast, I notice all you do is drink some juice most mornings, but you need--"

"More meat," Cyril said flatly.

"Exactly! Now hurry!" Raphael waved his hand towards the food line. "Go before they run outta pheasant."

"Oh, were you going to get more food, Cyril?"

Cyril froze. That sickeningly sweet voice.

"I can get it for you, so just sit tight!" Hilda said cheerfully. 

Distantly he could hear Ignatz say, "Wow, Hilda's offering to do someone a favor."

"Well, she owes Cyril," Claude said.

He could leave now. If he left now, he could be out of sight before Hilda returned. But then she would likely corner him and ask him why he left, and he'd have to talk to her alone. Again.

His gaze flickered to Claude.

Claude was watching him, face neutral. 

Cyril swallowed. He supposed it would be better to stay.

Time seemed to drag, but he knew that Hilda must've returned quickly based on Ignatz's surprise. She set the hot plate above his current one with a chirpy "Here you go!" and sat next to Claude.

Claude's eyes seemed to continue to watch Cyril, but he drew Raphael and Ignatz into another conversation. Despite being surrounded by students, the atmosphere felt oddly focused between Cyril and Hilda alone.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Hilda said from the corner of her mouth, other side already taken up by a large bite of fish.

Cyril licked his lips. "...I gotta go. Work to do--"

"Aww, no, finish eating first! Besides, I wanted to talk to you for a bit."

Another stab of ice made him freeze.

"I talked a lot the other day about my impression of Almyrans," Hilda said, her own fork now spinning idly as it hovered above her plate. "But you know, now I wonder. What do you think of us? Of people from Fodlan I mean."

His first instinct was to regurgitate a pleasant spiel about how the people of Fodlan were wonderful and he was immensely grateful to have been brought here, but as he opened his mouth, he caught himself.

Cyril breathed. He wasn't in House Goneril. He was at Garreg Mach. There was only Hilda.

Hilda who was watching him patiently. She wasn't eating, even her fork was still.

"...I can't really tell you," Cyril said.

"You can be honest, I promise."

"No," Cyril shook his head. "I mean I don't really got an impression of people from Fodlan all together." 

Hilda tilted her head and waited for Cyril to continue.

"I mean, there's all sortsa people here, right? Can't really say everyone from one place is any one thing. That's how it is for Fodlan, Almyra...anywhere ya go really." Cyril swallowed, wondering if he should continue. Hilda seemed to be waiting as if she could sense there was still something he had yet to say. 

"...the only thing that's the same," Cyril said at last, "is that the people in power keep the weak ones down."

"Huh." Hilda chewed thoughtfully on a piece of fish. "Guess I never thought about it that way. You've got an open mind, Cyril. Bet you can get along with just about anyone if you wanted to."

Cyril shrugged.

"So, one person shouldn't be enough to ruin your experience in the Golden Deer, right?"

At that, Cyril went rigid. 

Hilda smiled a small smile. "You get along pretty well with most of the class. I'm probably the only one who makes you uncomfortable, but...I won't bother you unless you want me to. So, don't feel like you have to leave, ok?" She stood, and Cyril's followed her movement with his eyes. "That's all I wanted to say. I hope I'll still see you around, Cyril."

Cyril continued to stare where Hilda was, even after Hilda had moved to sit next to Marianne and her cheerful chattering informed him that she had already inserted herself into another conversation.

"Eat, Cyril," Claude said. "You want muscles like Raphael, right?"

Cyril picked up his fork. The first plate of pheasant was already growing cold, but an open appetite made the bite more delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Cyril and Hilda have achieved C support.


	14. Unison

Cyril had seen Claude riding a horse once with his bow in hand. 

Leonie had mentioned she wanted to become a bow knight, and Claude had offered to show her how to get a feel for shooting from horseback. It wasn't like using a sword or lance astride--those weapons still allowed one arm to keep a grip on the reins if necessary. With a bow, it was impossible to use without both hands, leaving the rider with only their legs to maneuver their horses.

From what Cyril had seen, Claude was _ good _. Watching him, it was like a rein was superfluous. The horse seemed to know exactly when to turn so that what had been a wild twist of Claude's body in fact aligned perfectly with the targets as they passed.

From the blue, Cyril suddenly remembered the riders he had seen once as a young child when his parents had taken him to the Festival of the Five Tribes in Anadolu. Years had passed since he thought of it, but once the first ghost of a memory slipped through, the rest of it entered uninvited.

Something had gone right that year, and his mother had decided that they could travel to the province capital for the festival instead of celebrating in town. 

He remembered how the packed buildings and the winding alleyways had dizzied him. The festival wasn't like the one held in town, attended only by locals. He had smelled the incense clinging to the clothes of the tradesman from Obodas, seen the newly invented wonders being shown in crowded stalls by Amanian scholars, and heard the quick paced prairie songs on Temuji horsehead fiddles. He had even spotted one of the veiled holy women, rumored to almost never leave their homes in the cliffsides of Obodas. Their presence was likely because the king himself had come from the Almyran capital to celebrate in his home province, so even they sent a few of their numbers out.

But the memory that came the most vividly were those of the festival games. It had been more a show of talent than anything else. Khidr had sent out their finest wyvern riders, but Cyril had been enthralled by the equestrians from Kamangir and Temujin. Even the best wyvern rider kept a firm grip on the reins, letting go only to shoot. There was a clear distinction between man and beast, working together, but separate all the same.

The equestrians had been different. He could not recall a moment when their hands touched the horses--they hadn't even attached reins. The horses had been like extensions of their riders. They had turned and leapt in tight circles, lunging forward and backwards, all while the rider remained straight-backed in the saddle, lazily shooting their arrows at increasingly difficult targets. Two parts of one smooth action.

_ Those people were born in the saddle _, his father had said.

Claude rode like that. Like someone raised in the saddle.

Which was why it came as a surprise when Claude was paired with him for sky watch.

Cyril stared as Claude cooed at a wyvern that was returning his affections with her own rumbling purr as he scritched her jaw. It was hard to believe that the wyvern had never seen Claude before today from how well she was responding to his attempts at buttering her up.

"Ah, I really missed this," Claude said, face for once shining as bright and warm as the yellow cape slung over his shoulders. There was no restraint to his giddiness--what was usually a locked book written with invisible ink had now opened its pages, displaying its joy for all to read in loopy lettering. "Can you believe they won't let students near the wyverns without 2 months of training?"

"Well, they're big, and can take a bite at ya if you don't get their respect," Cyril said as he climbed on top of his own wyvern. "...but I like them a lot too."

Claude stopped blubbering over his and swung himself into the saddle with one smooth jump. "Is that why you're always on wyvern duty?"

"I-I'm not always--"

"But you do always volunteer to swap other chores for it," Claude grinned. "Not that I blame you. Nothing beats a wyvern." With a kick, the wyvern took off and dragged Claude's excited whoop up into the air with her.

Cyril groaned. They were supposed to stay together. Shaking his head, he kicked his wyvern and felt the rush of wind accompanying their ascent. Despite himself, Cyril could feel his frown twitch upward into a grin as his stomach gave a satisfying flip that only the sensation of being airborne could give.

He stopped the ascent when he was just level with the tallest spire of the cathedral. Even from that low height, the world seemed to shrink beneath him. Garreg Mach was situated at the precipice of the mountain. From the back of the wyvern he could see how the monastery spilled off the cliffs and dripped itself down the mountainside with little rooms and stairs cut into the cliffs. The gaping maw of the mountains breathed its misty breath up into the monastery, pooling so that from the ground the fog seemed endless, but from the air, it was as if the heavens were inverted and clouds had fallen to the earth.

It was wide world out there. The higher it went, the wider the view, and the smaller his world in the monastery became.

"Don't want to keep going up?" Claude said, descending to level himself with Cyril.

"Nah, any higher and we won't be able to see people anymore." Cyril's inquisitive frown returned. "How come you're not training to be a bow knight?"

"It's a rite of passage to fly a wyvern." Claude patted his wyvern fondly. "Even if I'm in Fodlan, that doesn't change."

Cyril blinked. It was said that the people of Khidr were once called "the people of the wind" because they were the first to tame wyverns. That tradition had persisted over a millennium, and even the feeblest children eventually learned to handle a wyvern. But he didn't expect to hear of those rites from Claude.

"Aren't you from Kamangir? It should be horses then, right?"

"No?" Claude lifted an eyebrow. "I'm from Khidr."

"What?!" Cyril's stomach gave another odd little flip. The same province. He didn't think of Almyra as home, not really, but there was something comforting about the knowledge that there was another with ties so close to his own.

"What's with the shock?" Claude said with a laugh. "Only people from Khidr really interact with Fodlan. Any Almyran you run into in here would be from Khidr. Although…" He tilted his head. "It is true I spent most of my time in Kamangir. How'd you guess?"

"Umm...well…" Now that he knew it was wrong, Cyril felt embarrassed to say it aloud. "I thought you rode like a Kamangi."

Claude let out an even louder peal of laughter. "Never say that to someone from Kamangir, they'd take it as an insult. I, however, am _ very _ flattered. Thank you, Cyril. Makes all those times my father tied me to a horse worth it."

It was strange to hear those words, those names, so casually. He had long put away that knowledge in the back of his mind and kept the box firmly shut, but now the curios from his childhood were rattling and begging to be let out.

"Why were you in Kamangir?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"My father works in the capital, but I still lived in Anadolu for a few months every year."

"You lived in _ Parsa _? Do they have wyverns there?"

"Well, it's nothing compared to the numbers in Khidr, but they had a fair share." Claude smiled fondly. "Even got my own egg to hatch."

Cyril's jaw dropped. His parents had been breeders, so naturally he had seen a fair few hatch, but none of them were ones that he had called his own. _ When you're older _ they had told him. It wasn't like a horse where you could start training a child from infancy to ride and fall. Cyril could understand _ why _ they had told him so, but that didn't make the sting of never reaching that _ when _ with them any less painful.

"A real beauty too," Claude said unprompted, apparently all too glad to have an excuse to gush about his wyvern. "Her scales are like pearls."

"...did you pick an albino?"

"I did."

"That's...dangerous isn't it?" Cyril said hesitantly. "White's so easy to spot, and they're usually the runts of the clutch."

Claude's fond smile turned distant. "Something that's unlucky in one situation could be a boon in another."

"I dunno if I can see when a brighter target would be a good thing. In the wild they mostly just die…"

"Well, there's many ways to live," Claude said, gazing out somewhere far beyond where Cyril could see. "Something isn't useless because it's different. It'll just have a different purpose than what's expected, that's all."

"Take a common wyvern. Compared to horses, they require more food and more training. In an open field with limited resources, it's more practical to have a horse. It wasn't until people were forced to cross mountains that the value of a wyvern became apparent."

Suddenly, Cyril was even happier that Garreg Mach was high in the mountains. "I'm glad that they keep wyverns here," he said. 

"Well they're too useful to get rid of," Claude said, gaze returning to focus. "Hmm, I guess foreign ideas are easier to swallow when its a convenient one..."

"What's _ that _ supposed to mean?" Cyril said, confused by the turn of the conversation.

"This is for your ears only, alright? Don't go repeating this to the monks." Claude edged his wyvern closer and leaned in conspiratorially. Cyril considered plugging his ears. 

"All is given by the goddess in Fodlan," Claude started as Cyril was still considering. "Every blessing, every idea, and because of that, tradition is tied to faith. In turn, anything that changes tradition could be seen as an attack on the faith. Creatures with an appearance similar to wyverns are divine messengers of the goddess here, and that belief can trace its roots to the earliest worship of the goddess, predating even the founding of the Seiros faith. Some of the early texts I found even refer to wyverns themselves as lower messengers of the goddess."

"It's unlikely that the people of Fodlan would've thought to tame them like beasts unless outsiders--like say, our ancestors--had shown them that it was possible. Then, because they were too useful to be without, wyverns were dragged down from their place of worship and became mere beasts on the level of pegasi. Faith and tradition agreed to change as one for the sake of convenience."

Claude leaned back and grinned. "Or, that's my ongoing theory anyway. Pretty interesting though, right?"

Cyril narrowed his eyes. "I thought you didn't care about the church. Seteth complains about you skipping out on prayer all the time."

"That's not true at all. I bet the only way for any smooth shift in tradition to occur would be if the faith was willing to mold itself to the change. In that sense, I care a lot about the church."

"Sounds pretty blasphemous," Cyril said flatly.

"You say that like you worship the goddess."

"I don't. I was saying it sounds blasphemous for _ any _ faith." He shook his head. "You're pretty odd, you know that Claude?"

"Oh?" Claude leaned forward again. "Good odd, bad odd?"

Which indeed. At times it seemed comforting, and at others, like that comfort had a catch. "...both, I guess," Cyril said after several seconds.

"Glad to see my efforts to keep you guessing are working fantastically," Claude said brightly. "Although, I do hope it'll err on the side of good in the end."

Cyril hoped that as well, but he couldn't help the growing discomfort as Claude's earlier words settled. Cyril knew he'd always stand by Lady Rhea without question, but he hoped that those odd ideas wouldn't lead Claude to stand on an opposing side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was also half to go wild making stuff up about Almyra. Sorry for all the unnecessary details, it's just fun.
> 
> A quick guide for the too many names I dropped this chapter and a summary of said unnecessary details.
> 
> The five provinces are:  
Khidr - Bordering Fodlan. Cyril and Claude's father are from here. Anadolu is the capital city. A border province without much prestige up until the ascent of the current king.  
Kamangir - Contains the Almyran capital, Parsa. The original hero king was from here, and historically, most kings were selected from this province.  
Temujin - The other equestrian province to the east of Kamangir.  
Obodas - Province with many trade routes. Most of their cities are built into the stone cliffsides of the mountains there. Have a sect of people living there that don't follow the same faith as the rest of Almyra.  
Amani - A province known for its high concentration of scholars.


	15. Unprompted

"Cyril, take this."

Before he could finish turning around, Byleth's hand was already extended towards him, a piece of paper gripped between their fingers. Night had already fallen, and the candlelight cut harshly across Byleth's face. Without meaning to, Cyril jolted back.

"I didn't know you guys came back already," Cyril said, willing his heart to settle back into place. 

"We arrived just after dinner."

"How'd kingdom business go this time?"

Cyril thought he saw a twitch in Byleth's face. A grimace? Or a sudden itch? If Claude was here, he'd certainly be able to give an interpretation, but he wasn't and Cyril was left with nothing but guesses.

"We finished the mission," Byleth said slowly. They rustled the paper in their hand. "Someone asked me to give this to you."

"Oh, right." Cyril took the paper from Byleth's fingers. Words were scribbled across the paper from top to bottom, neat and sharp, each letter connected by a thin spiderthread of ink. He did his best to keep his face as expressionless as Byleth's as he looked back up at them, hoping desperately that Byleth wasn't expecting a specific response to whatever was written on the paper. "Thanks professor."

Byleth nodded and Cyril held back a sigh of relief. "I'd also like to talk to you about your study focuses," they continued. "You aim to be a wyvern rider, correct?"

Cyril gave a hum of affirmation as he stuffed the paper into his pocket. "Is...something wrong with that?"

Byleth shook their head. "You are aware that the qualifications for it require axe proficiency, correct?"

"Yeah? I might not look it, but I'm pretty good with an axe too, professor!"

"I believe you. However, Hilda is also focusing on axes. She informed me that you are not comfortable with her. With the class so small, it is unavoidable that you may be paired with her during training."

A grimace forced itself onto his face before he could stop himself and refused his attempts to smooth the expression from his features. He supposed he should've expected this--the Gonerils' ancestral weapon was an axe. Of course Hilda would continue that tradition.

Training with Hilda wouldn't be that bad. He knew that. For her part, Hilda had kept her word. She did not pretend to ignore his existence like Lorenz, but she only spoke to him when necessary and was careful to stay out of his way otherwise. But it seemed that wasn't enough to ease the iron grip that his memories of the Gonerils held.

Byleth pursed their lips. "We can hold separate sessions--"

"No! Ya don't have to go through the trouble for me," Cyril said quickly. It wouldn't be that bad. It _ couldn't _ be that bad. 

He didn't want to be petrified by the mere presence of a Goneril for the rest of his life. They would keep coming to this academy, and he doubted all of them would be as accommodating as Hilda.

"I'll be fine," Cyril repeated when Byleth remained silent. "Besides, Claude's training in axes too, right?"

"Yes," they said, eyes widening the barest perceptible bit. "How did you know?"

Cyril stiffened, realizing that Claude had in fact, never suggested he would. Cyril had assumed he would.

There was no province in Almyra where the bow was not embraced, but each province had their own specialties that distinguished them. For Khidr, it was the axe, which meant that to the people of Fodlan, Almyra's specialties were the axe and bow.

It was suspicious enough that Claude would be flagrantly training in both, but add to that a wyvern and the fact that a known Almyran would be doing the same. Wouldn't it be too much?

Byleth was waiting for an answer. Cyril swallowed, not wanting to accidentally shove Claude's already precarious cover off the edge. "He mentioned it to me during sky watch. Said he liked flying and wanted to get certified as a wyvern rider."

"I see," Byleth said. As usual, Cyril gleaned nothing from that response. "Raphael will be training in axes as well. If you are fine with it, then the four of you will be training together."

"I'm fine with it."

They nodded once again. "It's good I was able to find you. You can be difficult to track down."

"Huh? What're ya talking about? I'm always around!"

This time, Byleth's lips twitched, and for the first time, Cyril was able to read the expression. Amusement.

"Of course you are, Cyril. I'll see you in class tomorrow. Sleep soon."

Sleep. At the mention of it, Cyril yawned. He shook himself and continued to sweep the floors. He could sleep once he finished sweeping the second floor of the monastery, and not before then.

The candles burned low, students slowly trickled out to retire to their rooms, workers came to replace the candles, and the new candles melted away.

At last, only the library was left.

Several books were strewn about the library, and although he could not see another presence, he could hear someone turning pages. Cyril narrowed his eyes. Of the ones who stayed at the library long past reasonable hours, Lysithea always kept books next to her in a neat stack and Lindhart would always put his books away unless he had fallen asleep on top of the ones he didn't. Which meant…

"Claude!" he shouted.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll put them back in a bit," a voice called back.

Cyril followed the voice up the stairs onto the second floor of the library. His frown only deepened when he saw the obscene pile that Claude had gathered around him at the top. Claude's foot tapped absently on a step, threatening to tip over several that he had balanced next to it.

"Watch it!" Cyril said, picking the stack up and moving it to the stack next to where Claude sat on the top flight of the stairs.

"Sure thing, Cyril," Claude said without looking up at all.

Cyril leaned over to see what Claude was so engrossed by. He could not understand the words, but the picture on the page was very clearly the odd new sword that Byleth had acquired after the Rite of Rebirth. "Reading up about the professor's sword?"

"It's called the Sword of the Creator," Claude said, flipping back to a page that displayed a lance before going back to the sword. "And...I guess you could call it the professor's sword. For now. It's a wonder that Rhea allowed them to keep it, especially with what happened with the lance--well, I guess Rhea must have some sort of connection to Teach."

"The professor is nice!" Cyril said, eager to back up Lady Rhea.

Claude glanced up from his book. "Won you over too, eh?"

"...do you dislike the professor?"

"I never said that," Claude said with a smile. "Still, what a windfall for Teach. A Relic weapon like that is hard to come by. Even if it turns out to be less than a blessing, just to have it to study..."

"Don't the Riegans have one too?" Cyril asked. "I heard the Gonerils talk about theirs all the time. You're the heir, so--"

"The Relics are the weapons used to guard the border," Claude said, eyes growing colder with each word. "You really think my grandfather would let an _ Almyran _near it? I haven't even been allowed to look at it."

Cyril blinked. "B-but didn't he choose you as his heir?"

Claude's icy smile fissured into an even wider crack. "I think my grandfather is still hoping this is all a horrible nightmare and that Godfrey's daughter or some other bastard child will come forward. He was desperate enough for me to force his hand, but if there is any other heir, I'm sure he would leap at the chance."

"Oh." He wasn't sure what he expected. It was only natural for the people of Fodlan to hate Almyrans. He wondered why he thought the ties of blood would be enough to overcome it.

Claude shut the book and turned to pick up another from the mess beside him. "What's this?" Instead, he picked up a folded piece of paper.

A familiar looking piece of paper. Cyril felt his pockets.

Empty.

"_ Dear Cyril _ ," Claude read. " _ I have often seen you working from afar and been filled with admiration. Your devotion and hard work-- _ " Claude's eyes widened. "-- _ is exceedingly adorable. _ Cyril! You got a love letter!"

Cyril had known that from the first ten words, and still he failed to stop Claude because the embarrassment had bound his limbs and rooted him in place like a plant. He could feel the heat in his face, even if he couldn't see the redness in his cheeks.

"Oh, this _ letter _ is adorable," Claude said gleefully, reading it without shame. "You never told me you've been flirting with people at the monastery."

"I don't flirt!" Cyril cried, embarrassment finally so great that it pushed him out of the shackles it had made. His mind spun wildly as he tried to recall who could've written him a _ love _ letter of all things. If he had known this was its contents, he would've asked the professor about who had requested its delivery.

"Guess not. Huh. They even say they've never spoken to you. _ Secret admirer _. Oh, that's sweet."

Cyril snatched the paper from Claude's hand. "S-stop reading it!"

"Well I can't read it now." Claude held his hands up, the picture of innocence. "But the sweet words have been etched into my heart."

Cyril let out a cry of frustration. "I'm telling ya! I don't know who this is! I...I never even talked to this person." With the embarrassment ebbing, confusion took its place instead. "I never even tried to make them like me. So why…"

The amusement on Claude's face stiffened. "...well, it just means they like who you are, even without you doing anything in particular. That's...good." His words were awkward, as if he were in wonder about it all himself.

Cyril looked at the paper in his hands. The love letter. He wondered if he would be as shocked by something like this if he were in Almyra. "...hey, Claude. How'd your parents meet?"

"Huh?" Claude blinked away his stiffness. "Uhh, well they met during the war. Pretty sure my father almost stuck an axe in her neck, and she almost put an arrow in his eye."

"_ What _?" Cyril gawked. "Why are they married?"

"A lot of things happened," Claude replied, smiling. A real one this time. "And now they're madly in love with each other. Just because you start as enemies, doesn't mean you're doomed to remain enemies forever."

It was hard to believe. And yet…

After a moment, Cyril shoved the letter back into his pocket.

"Aww, keeping it close to you!" Claude teased.

Cyril flushed. "Shut up."

He had no plans to find out who sent it, but it was a nice sentiment to receive. A nice hope to hold onto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I would love for Claude to be able to give Cyril the advice he needs all the time, Claude's also kind of a mess when it comes to thinking that people can like him without prompting. So the two of them with an unexpected love letter is just both of them sitting around like "whooaaaaaa".


	16. Prayer

It was a fine morning on the cusp of autumn when Seteth discovered that Flayn was missing.

At first, the panic was contained to Seteth and those close to him like Lady Rhea. Cyril even heard one of the students joke that Flayn had merely run off to elope. He would've run over to smack the red-haired student with his broom had a girl not done so for him. 

But as the week went on and each day weighed heavier than the last, the unease broke free and infected every person in the monastery. Rumors swirled of a figure cloaked in death haunting the monastery grounds at night, like a monster from the pages of a fairytale. Of things lurking beneath the grounds of Garreg Mach, waiting to crawl back into the light of day to take unwitting students back with it into the bowels it came from. 

Each rumor grew more fanciful and ominous than the last.

Two weeks passed, and people began to feel dread at the idea of finding her. Seteth didn't sleep.

Somehow, the weight of Flayn's disappearance made an atmosphere even heavier than the one surrounding Lady Rhea's supposed assassination two months prior. At least then, there was a sense that it could be prevented, with Flayn, the deed had already been done.

At least then, they had known the culprit.

There were whispers of suspicion about who could be aiding them, but it was known that the Western Church were the main instigators of the attempt on Lady Rhea's life. No questions about that.

But there was no one claiming the crime now. It could be anyone, and naturally, _ anyone _ was mostly synonymous with _ outsiders _.

_ Dagdans can't be trusted! The war with them has barely ended, and who knows what they do on their unblessed lands. _

_ The people of Duscur are miscreants. A kidnapping is perfectly in line with their methods. Haven't they started a riot recently as well? This must be connected to their rebellion. _

_ Almyrans are bloodthirsty creatures who worship death. They must've sacrificed Flayn to one of their heathen gods! _

Cyril had always felt lingering gazes at his back, but now it was like a spotlight was surrounding him on a darkened stage. His usual slinking wasn't enough when everyone was on high alert and often looking specifically for people like _ him _. Even someone like Shamir often found herself tailed. He wished he could throw a wrapping over his head and hide his hair and face that way, but that only drew more attention in Fodlan.

It was a waste of time. Flayn was missing, Seteth was beside himself, Lady Rhea barely ate, and half the monks were spinning themselves in circles following leads without substance. 

Cyril took a deep breath and loosened his grasp on his broom. It wouldn't do for him to waste _his_ time. The Golden Deer had agreed to meet that evening to pursue rumors of the "reaper", and he would only have until then to finish his duties. 

Lysithea had given a stuttering scoff at the idea of a ghost who could slip between walls and disappear, but Claude had insisted that there were always grains of truth behind stories. Cyril suspected that Claude already had a theory of what that truth was. The monks and knights pointedly chose to pass their information to Byleth or Lorenz, but in the end, Claude was the one who drove the direction of their investigation. Another waste of time.

There was a loud thud. A muffled cry.

Cyril froze.

It had come from Claude's room, but the cry had sounded nothing like Claude.

He held his broom defensively in front of him as he edged towards the door to Claude's room. The door wasn't locked. Claude always kept the door locked.

Cyril swallowed and slowly pushed the door open.

Even before he could see anything, a pleasant smell wafted through the door crack. It was sweet and warm, a familiar incense that he didn't have time to ponder. The door opened wider, and it was like a storm had passed through the room. 

Or like he had stepped into the library after Claude had passed through.

Books were thrown about the room, piling on the floor and the bed. So much so that even though Claude's bed was at least twice the size of the standard student bed, he was certain that no one could sleep on it unless they curled themselves into the one unoccupied corner near the pillow. The nightstand had been unceremoniously jammed into a corner to make room for even more stacks of books.

This was certainly Claude's room, but the knights standing in it were certainly not Claude.

One was fixing a stack of books, whispering in an angry hush, "I keep telling you to watch your feet!" 

The second was leaned over a shelf, back turned towards Cyril. "What is this thing?" the knight said as she turned around, a silver urn in hand.

Thin tendrils of smoke drifted into the air from the white ash that filled the urn to its brim. Even before he remembered what it was, Cyril knew it was the source of the scent.

He knew the shine of its silver, the curve of the cup, and even the white ash that collected itself in its depths. He knew that Claude must've lit it daily, and when he remembered the words that accompanied its lighting, he heard them spoken in his mother's voice.

_ The earth nurtures the trees. The trees bear fruit. The stems feed the fires. The ashes enrich the earth. _

The juniper and frankincense would burn, his mother would light the hearth with the urn's flames, and once it had burned down, Cyril would dust the still warm ashes on his palms.

Cyril stared at the urn. The knights stared at him.

"P-put that down!" Cyril shouted.

The knight that had been kneeling by the books flinched and lunged forward to drag Cyril out of the doorway and into the room. The door shut with a click behind him.

"...you know what this is, don't you?" the other knight said, turning the urn in her hands.

Cyril flinched. "N-no, but it isn't yours! What are ya doing in Claude's room anyways? Trying to steal his valuables?"

"How dare you suggest that a Knight of Seiros would sink to _ thievery _," she hissed.

"We're investigating Flayn's disappearance on behalf of the church," the other knight said. He gripped Cyril's shoulders and held him in place.

"Yeah, so's everybody," Cyril said, trying to ignore how the knight towered behind him. "What are ya doing in _ Claude _ ' _ s _ room?"

"It's only natural to investigate the most suspicious figures. The ones most likely to do such things on sacred grounds." The grip on Cyril's shoulders tightened. "You'd do well to remember where your loyalties should lie and stay out of our way."

Cyril gritted his teeth and twisted out of the knight's grasp. "I'm not in your way! I'm telling you it's a waste of time! Claude wouldn't—"

"And how do you know that? No one even knows where he came from." The female knight narrowed her eyes. "He's Almyran too, isn't he? That's why you're taking his side."

"Beasts of a herd flock together," the other said.

"I-I don't know what Claude is, but he hasn't _ done _ anything—"

"Tell me, what is this for?" The silver urn was shoved towards Cyril, and the ash spilled unceremoniously to the floor. "Is this for some kind of heathen ritual?"

"No, it's for making the room less drafty."

Cyril turned towards the voice. Claude stood at the doorway, arms crossed and face set in an annoyed frown. "No offense to whoever built this place, but it can get cold and _ damp _ in here. So." His eyes slid cooly from one person to the next. "I don't recall inviting anyone over. It's a _ mess _." He stared at the ash pile at the Cyril's feet. "And you made a bigger one."

"We're here on behalf of the Knights of Seiros in search of Seteth's sister—"

"What? You think I'm keeping Flayn in my room? I could hear you two bothering Cyril from the stairway." Claude snorted. "I wish our walls were thick enough for me to hide someone in here. Wouldn't have to listen to Sylvain and whoever he has as company with him down the hall. If anyone was going to hide someone in their rooms, it'd be someone with better living situations. Like a knight."

"How dare—"

"I only dare as much as the two of you have when making fanciful leaps of logic," Claude said with a smile. "And that was me being charitable. I could've also assumed you were here to steal my silver. Which by the way, despite its lovely shine, is actually just common steel. Who asked you to do this anyways?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Oh, I think it's of great concern that someone so high up would waste their resources and send knights on a wild chase to find...an incense holder."

The male knight stepped forward angrily. "You've been disciplined many times for missing the daily prayers—"

"What, is this an inquisition now? I thought we were concerned about _ Flayn _."

"--and for those poisons you're so fond of—"

"Which Hubert is equally fond of," Claude said, voice raised enough to ring with an authority Cyril didn't know he possessed. "But we all know why you haven't snuck into his room, so let's not drag this out any further. I know everyone's a little anxious about the number of foreigners at the monastery this year, but let's not get those who have been here for years involved, shall we? I'm sure Lady Rhea would be upset to know that someone was bothering Cyril."

"Lady Rhea would understand."

"Would she? There's only one person in this room she deigns to see daily, and it's not you—" Claude nodded towards the knight holding the urn. "--or you, or me." 

Claude paused to allow the words to settle in, cold smile warming with the joy of watching the knight pale. "Tell whoever raised those suspicions to come to me directly. Now then, since you're not thieves, please leave my things be and let's meet at a later date."

The female knight half threw the urn back onto the shelf, but the two trailed out of the room without another word. Claude waited until their steps faded down the hallway and down the stairs before shutting the door.

"Figured they'd do this. They've had people tailing me for _ days _ ," Claude said, shaking his head. "What were _ you _ doing in here?"

"I heard someone in your room."

"And you thought to investigate on my behalf? Aww, Cyril I'm touched." Cyril felt himself flush and was glad that Claude had chosen that moment to crouch on the floor. He threaded his fingers through the ash pile on the carpet. "Say, you don't suppose this stuff is still good for a blessing, do you?"

"Probably not. It's unclean now."

"That part never made much sense to me. You dust the ashes everywhere for a blessing, but gods forbid it touching something else before using it for one." With a sigh, Claude stood. Cyril watched as he pulled small chips of wood from a drawer and deposited it into the silver urn.

"I can't believe you brought a fire vessel into the monastery," Cyril said.

"Pray twice a day. Once to the first lighting of the sun at dawn—"

"--and once to the first lighting of the hearth fire at night. I know. But you're at the monastery of _ Seiros _." Cyril frowned. "I didn't think you'd be religious enough to risk it."

"It's not _ that _ risky, trust me. People here hear my prayers and think its poetry."

"I just thought...by the way ya talked about things…"

"Well, I don't believe in the gods very much if that's what you mean," Claude admitted easily. "But I won't deny nature itself. The earth nurtures, the water soothes, the fire cleanses all." With a flick of his wrist, Claude lit a match and a small flame appeared between his fingers. "The trees that drew from the earth and water, and the fire that warms us, all gather in the vessel."

Claude held out the match towards Cyril. "There's a power to that, don't you think?"

The flame danced between Claude's fingers, and Cyril found himself reaching out to answer its invitation.

_ The earth nurtures the trees. The trees bear fruit. The stems feed the fires. The ashes enrich the earth. _

Cyril dropped the match into the metal urn. The flame spread instantly, and Cyril could no longer tell where the match ended and resin wood spread at the vessel's bottom began. The fire danced, and all inside the vessel became one. 

The sweet incense carried itself through the air, warm scent filling Cyril, pushing the silent dread that had been building inside of him out until it withered in the flame's light.

When the eighth bell rang and it was time to meet the rest of the Golden Deer, the fire had burned the wood into a fine white ash. Before he left, Cyril dipped a finger into the ash at the vessel's bottom and dusted it over the sash tied around his waist.

He doubted that the goddess would listen to his prayers, but he hoped that the ashes could still bless their search and return Flayn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude does actually have a silver urn in his room, and it's probably not a Zoroastrian fire urn specifically, but there's no specific reason for it so why not? The Almyran religion being depicted is as much Zoroastrianism as the Church of Seiros is Catholicism, which is to say, only vaguely in its dressings but very much a fantasy version of it playing fast and loose with the details. 
> 
> There seems to be an emphasis on multiple gods and more on nature than specific worship of any one figure from the little that Claude describes in game, so I don't think it's monotheistic like Zoroastrianism is despite borrowing it symbols and ceremonies. But Claude is also Claude and his views on religion are unconventional, so who knows.


	17. Future

Cyril knocked on the door to Seteth's office and pushed it open at the _ come in _. "Uhh, did you want to talk to me about something?"

"Ah, Cyril." Seteth stood and circled his desk to pull out a chair opposite from where he was seated. "Sit down, please."

He had half a mind to decline--he only had an hour before classes started after all, and he had promised Flayn that he would be there to walk into the classroom with her when she started her first day. But it was Seteth, and despite Flayn's return, dark bags still hung under his eyes from his month-long insomnia. So, Cyril sat and took a underbaked biscuit from the plate Seteth had put between them. Flayn must've made them.

"I'm glad Flayn's alright," Cyril said. "She seems pretty excited to join the class."

"Yes, there isn't much to be thankful for given the situation, but I am relieved to hear that she spent the majority of the ordeal asleep," Seteth said, pain flitting across his face as he sat down. "But in truth, I called you here to apologize to you, Cyril."

"Huh?" Cyril's brow furrowed. "What for?"

"During the previous month, the knights caused a fair bit of trouble for you and others at the monastery, did they not?"

"Oh, ummm...it wasn't too bad…"

Seteth held up a hand. "Claude had plenty of words on the matter, and Jeralt was happy to pass them along to me. Despite what was happening, we should not have allowed the investigations to veer into harassment, particularly when the culprit behind the kidnapping was among the Knights of Seiros. But, your silence made me fear that perhaps you have a tendency to keep occurrences like this to yourself."

Cyril stumbled for words, face growing warm. It would only cause trouble for the church and Lady Rhea if he made a fuss about every little thing that happened to him around the monastery. The students were often nobles who had paid hefty sums to attend the academy and would rise to positions of influence. It wouldn't do to drag the church into their personal grievances with him. 

It had been much worse at the Gonerils. Compared to that, it didn't take much effort to shake off a few barbs and bury away their sting. He had thought he was doing an excellent job of keeping the incidents hidden from view, but now it was all being brought back into the open.

"It's nothing for you to be ashamed of," Seteth said, sternly shaking his head. "I am more ashamed to have been unaware for so long."

"It's normal!" Cyril protested. "Really, I can deal with it myself." He prayed that Shamir hadn't told Seteth or Lady Rhea about the time she had to fish him out of the pond.

There was a moment of silence before Seteth spoke. The frown Cyril read on Seteth's face made him want to swallow his previous words even though he could not understand why they had upset Seteth. "Regardless of whether or not it is normal, I hope that you will inform me in the future if someone mistreats you."

"Of course," Cyril said quickly.

Seteth narrowed his eyes. "_ Cyril _. Please. Promise me."

What could he say? The fact of it was that it was like water dripping on stone--rhythmic and steady. Like he had learned to ignore his heartbeat, the constant drip drop of eyes at his back and suspicion tracing his steps had long since faded into background noise. Comforting as it was to know that Seteth cared, Cyril couldn't imagine detailing each individual drop.

Cyril chewed on his biscuit. The underbaked dough stuck to his throat.

"Tell me," Seteth said with a sigh. "Have you given any thought to your future?"

Perhaps it wasn't just the sticky dough that was caught in his throat. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"You once told me that you are happy so long as you could continue to work for the archbishop. But have you thought about anything else in that future? There are other ways of finding happiness. You do not have to bear everything because you do not wish to create problems for her."

Cyril swallowed. "Everything I have right now, I have because of Lady Rhea. It's only right that I repay her."

"And once you have finished repaying her?"

"How can you ever finish repaying someone for giving you _ everything _?" Cyril said incredulously.

"Cyril, you are a child--"

"I'm not!"

"--and it is only natural that you would be nurtured," Seteth continued, voice raised to stack on top of Cyril's protest. "A mother would not ask her child to repay them for raising them. They only ask that the child does their best to grow and look ahead to their future. So think about it. Think about what you want from your future." His voice softened in the silence. "Can you do that, Cyril?"

Cyril nodded once.

It was a half lie. He didn't want to disappoint Seteth, but the thought of a future without Lady Rhea haunted his steps long after he left Seteth's office to finish his chores in the dining hall. In an instant, the thought turned his heart to ice and sent a shuddering chill through to the tips of his fingers. His hands fumbled, and the firewood he had been transporting to the kitchen tumbled to the ground.

Cyril bit back a curse as he shoved the wood back into his arms. Even after he picked the last log off the ground, his arms felt emptier than before. Confused, he lifted his head and saw Ashe standing sheepishly with the missing wood held against him.

"I-I thought you could use some help," Ashe said shyly. "This is an awful lot for one person to carry."

"I could've handled it," Cyril shrugged, but he made no motion to retrieve the rest from Ashe. For a boy that looked like a small flower stalk in the shade of the sturdy branches of the Blue Lions, he was surprisingly stubborn.

"Sure, but it's easier like this, isn't it?" 

"Yeah." A pause. He couldn't keep Ashe from helping, but he supposed there was one thing he could do to feel less badly about receiving aid. "Thanks," Cyril muttered.

"Of course!" Ashe's face split into a bright smile. "It always amazes me to watch you doing all this."

"Well, I have to do at least this much to stay at the monastery."

"What do you mean?" Ashe asked, frowning. "Seteth mentioned that you were a ward of the church."

"I mean I'm Almyran," Cyril said flatly. "Lots of folks don't think I should be here, but they can't complain about it to Lady Rhea if I earn my keep. Or at least they'll complain quieter, and _ I _ know I've done enough to deserve my stay."

"Oh, so it's a status thing. I can understand that. When I was first adopted, a lot of relatives were scandalized that three street urchins were being taken into the household. I got so embarrassed I tried to help the servants with their work but…" Ashe let out a nervous chuckle. "I wasn't nearly as good at it as you, Cyril. I almost got myself kicked in the head by a horse."

"Well, don't tell anyone, but…" Cyril's voice dropped into a shy whisper. "I almost got kicked by the horses when I started with them too."

"Really?! But you're so good with wyverns!"

"Yeah, but I grew up taking care of wyverns. Horses are so skittish compared to them!"

"I was surprised too. In the stories of knights I heard, horses were always brave steeds. It was kind of disappointing to be honest, but when I told Lord Lonato that, he said--"

Cyril waited, but the pause stretched into a silence. He turned his head to glance at Ashe.

Ashe was still keeping pace with him, but his expression was as though it had stopped with the rest of his sentence. His mouth was still parted, corners stretched upwards into the frozen remains of a fond smile. 

When he spoke again, the smile cracked away and all that was left was the emptiness. "You know, I really thought back then, that if I became a knight, I would be able to help Lord Lonato. That I could get accepted by his family. That's why I came to the Officer's Academy. I wanted to be of use to him. But now he's gone...and I'm still _ here _. I wonder why..."

If he was Claude, he'd be able to give a better answer. No, if he were anyone else, Cyril was certain he would be able to give a better answer. A more comforting answer.

But he was Cyril. He could only think of that imagined future without Lady Rhea and say, "I understand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude used "talk to their manager"! It was surprisingly effective...


	18. Tutelage

"I thought once the elite force broke through the center, they would continue deeper into enemy lines," Cyril said, wondering yet again how he could ever hope to remember the hundreds of formations that Byleth was intent on covering.

"No, they only need to make a break in the line so that the reserve forces can cut in and divide the enemy army in two." Lysithea frowned. "What did you have written down?"

His cheeks felt warm, and Cyril could only hope that it wasn't as flushed as he feared. "Oh, probably that. Just misremembered is all."

Lysithea's frown deepened. "Cyril...can I see your notes?"

"Wha--why?!"

"You often get your formations mixed up, or details of certain techniques incorrect. I wonder if there could be a way to improve the layout of your notes to help you better--"

"They're fine! Really."

"Cyril." Lysithea held out her hand. "As your tutor, I _ insist _."

The look on Lysithea's face was resolute. It was clear that even if he brushed her off today, she would only continue to pester him until he satisfied her demands. Resisting the urge to sigh, Cyril slowly slid his notebook towards Lysithea.

After Lorenz had given him the notebook, he had begun to draw the concepts that the professor had described so that he did not attract so much attention as the only one not writing when the scratch of pen quills filled the room. It was manageable enough at first, but as the number of formations swelled and the concepts became increasingly abstract, Cyril often found himself unable to interpret the diagrams he had made just a few weeks prior.

And if he couldn't interpret them, there was no way Lysithea could. Her knitted brows as she flipped through the pages of his notebook were clear signs of that.

"I can't see how _ anyone _ could follow this. Diagrams are excellent supplements, but there must be some sort of text to make sense of them." 

"I know…"

"Do you?" Lysithea's narrowed eyes seemed to pierce through him to strike exactly at the heart of the secret he hoped she wouldn't reach. 

_ Don't say it, don't say it. _

"Cyril, do you know how to write?"

He flinched, and in doing so, gave his answer.

"Honestly, I'm impressed you've managed to get this far in the class without being able to," Lysithea said. "Why didn't you say anything?"

His mouth felt dry. He wanted more than anything to slip away. "It's…embarrassing..."

"There's no need to be embarrassed at all," Lysithea said.

"Yes there is!" Cyril cried. The outburst was louder than he intended and he clamped his lips shut, waiting for the flare of shame to pass before speaking again. "It's like Lorenz was saying before the professor let me in the class...if I'm not good enough to be in the class, then I don't deserve to be there."

Lysithea's frown deepened into anger. "If you're worried about Lorenz, I'll shut him up."

"I don't really care about what Lorenz thinks, but…well, I don't want anyone to look down on me."

"Cyril, it's normal to not know how to read. A lot of commoners don't--"

"Well it's not normal for me!"

He hadn't meant to shout again. Lysithea jolted back, eyes blinking owlishly at his red face. His flush turned from embarrassment to regret. "S-sorry…"

"No, not at all." She shook her head. "What did you mean it isn't normal? Leonie told me half the kids in her village couldn't read."

He knew Lysithea was right. Ashe had mentioned before that he had never dreamed of learning to read prior to his adoption. But it was all the odder to him that Ashe had said it with such ease.

"I guess that's how things are here," Cyril said slowly. "But that's not how it was in Almyra. Every kid started lessons when they turned six."

A different sort of shock filled Lysithea's face. "Is everyone in Almyra _ rich _?"

"Wha--no! Not every village had one, but at least every town had a school run by the king and the temples. They weren't anything fancy, but you didn't have to pay anything for it, and they'd at least teach ya how to read."

"That's incredible!" Lysithea said, face aglow with excitement. "There's schools here too, but they still cost quite a bit to attend. Occasionally, there's wandering scholars who give lessons out of charity, but they're usually only ever in one location for a few months. A permanent school for the community. That's...that's unbelievable."

"I-I guess so?"

"Do they teach multiple languages too? Is that how you can speak Fodlani?"

"Ummm…" 

Not for the first time, Lysithea struck Cyril as oddly removed from the war between the Leicester Alliance and Almyra. She seemed to have no awareness regarding how the two countries had viewed each other. Even Hilda, placed far away from the war by her family, had absorbed some of the hostility that flared between them. It was as though Lysithea had only ever known a world after Almyra and the Alliance had solidified their treaty, and only knew the lingering tensions that persisted into the present.

Almyra hated Fodlan. No school would teach its language, not when the king's marriage to a Fodlani woman was enough reason for the council to consider reversing their selection and choosing the Kamangi candidate for the throne.

In the same breath that the people of Khidr expressed their pride for one of their own rising to the throne, there would be a sigh of despair at who sat beside him. It was no good that a man of his talents favored a child of two loyalties--a two headed snake that no one could safely grasp. A child that would forever stain his family line.

No, what Fodlani that a Khidran knew was absorbed by force as control of the border towns was passed back and forth over the hundred year long war. What fluency he gained was from House Goneril not allowing anything less from him.

But he didn't want to tell Lysithea all of that.

"Not really," Cyril muttered. "I didn't attend the schools anyways. After my parents died, I had to work. No time to sit in a place and learn, ya know? But everyone expected me to know how to read anyways, so I've always kept quiet about not knowing." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Didn't want everyone to look down on me."

"Oh." Lysithea's excitement ebbed. "I apologize."

"For what? Not your fault my parents died," Cyril shrugged.

"Not for that. I apologize for not thinking to take your pride into account. I thought it would be something you found normal, but I was wrong." For a moment, Lysithea was quiet as she fiddled with her fingers. Cyril was about to ask for his notebook back when her face shot up to face him again, a determined glint in her eye. "Alright, I'm only going to tell _ you _ this, so keep quiet about it."

"O-ok?"

Lysithea evened herself with a deep breath. "Most families with wealth start their children's education early on, so most noble children at least know their letters by seven. But...I didn't learn how to read a single one of them until I was eleven."

"Huh?"

Lysithea who was surrounded by books at all times of the day? Lysithea who's notes were filled from top to bottom with neat, cramped writing? He had imagined her much the same as a small child, devouring books too large for her infant hands. It was difficult to replace that image with one of Lysithea only a few years younger than him, brows furrowed as she tried to decipher the alphabet.

"Don't ask why," Lysithea said before the question slipped from Cyril. Her voice softened. "Sometimes, life puts you in circumstances you never wished for. I understand that. But!" Rising with the exclamation, Lysithea straightened, and Cyril found himself mirroring the motion. "That's all the more reason to grasp opportunities when they come your way later. You're at a school _ now _, Cyril. There's no time for shame! The opportunity is before you. What is this place meant for except to learn?"

"I don't think they teach stuff that basic here," Cyril protested weakly.

"Oh, but you have a perfectly willing teacher right _ here _." Her thumb jutted towards herself. "And the best methods of learning are still fresh for me too."

"I don't wanna waste your time--"

"Don't look down on yourself so much!" Lysithea snapped, and Cyril almost wanted to squeak out a _ of course _ . "So what if I can read and write in _ one _ language? That doesn't make you any worse. You know how to speak two languages. I only know one. If you start now, you'll pick up the trick to reading quickly enough. So?" She leaned in, determination set in her face like features carved into stone. "Will you allow me the honor of tutoring you?"

He couldn't imagine Lysithea allowing him to refuse, and if he was honest, he didn't want to refuse. So he swallowed whatever mincing apologies he had and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day public education will be a thing in Fodlan.


	19. Picture

_ Good deeds. Good thoughts. _

_ Pure as the air that fills us with the breath of life. Pure as the water that sustains us. Pure as the earth that nourishes us. Pure as the fire that will cleanse all that is not. _

_ Good deeds. Goods thoughts. _

The last of the wood turned to ash, and as it crumbled the ghost of it rose up. One last breath of heady incense. The fire danced one last flickering step and faded with the dissipating smoke. 

"Such a perfect example of prayer," he heard Claude say. "You actually keep it up for the entire burning. Really puts me to shame."

Cyril shook away the flame's thrall as he turned to face Claude.

Shame was the last emotion Cyril would've used to describe Claude's present state. The house leader was reclined carelessly in his overcrowded bed, head lifted by a pile of books he hadn't bothered moving. His legs where drawn in to avoid kicking over another stack over the edge of the bed, one foot bobbing up and down as it hung over a raised knee. Yet another old tome was in Claude's hands, as worn and frayed as all the rest.

"You're the one who prays _every_ _day_," Cyril retorted.

"Hey, you're welcome to do the same."

"Nah. It's fine. This is enough."

Perhaps it was even too much. Since he had discovered Claude's fire vessel, whenever his work brought him to the dormitories during sundown, Cyril would slip into Claude's room and partake in its lighting. To do so in a monastery dedicated to another faith, even when not doing so in the church itself, twisted his stomach into knots. It was true that Lady Rhea had told him that he was under no obligation to follow the Goddess, but praying to another while under her care still felt like a betrayal.

Yet like a moth, he was drawn to the flame. To its warmth, to the steady rhythm of its flickering dance that guided him through the prayers he had half-forgotten.

So, just for this one matter, he would keep a secret from Lady Rhea.

"Say," Claude said, looking up from his book for the first time. "You ever get inducted into the temple?"

Cyril shook his head. "I was taken by the Gonerils when I was eleven."

"One year shy, huh?" He tapped the book in his hands against his chin thoughtfully. "I can't get fire from the immortal flame, but the fire would at least be inside a vessel. I'm sure something can be scrounged up in the forest for the garland. Hmm...but we don't have a temple priest. There's no getting around that…"

"I-I'm not getting inducted while at the _ monastery _," Cyril hissed, aghast.

"No? There's no other way to get inducted unless you go back to Almyra."

"I'm not going back to Almyra either," he said flatly. "I'm fine not being inducted."

"That so? Well, let me know if you change your mind. I may not be a priest, but I at least know the initiation prayer." Claude's attention slipped back to the tome. 

Always with the books. At least Lysithea's readings seemed relevant to the lesson plan. From the pictures he had seen, Claude's supplementary reading supplemented exactly none of what Byleth taught. Cyril shuffled closer, curious.

To his dismay, even the title was indecipherable. He tried to recall which letter was what, but no matter how he switched them around in his head, the jumble of sounds they formed was completely unfamiliar.

Claude laughed, and Cyril's focus broke. "You're not going to be able to read this, Cyril."

"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?" Hopefully not that Claude had somehow discovered he couldn't read.

"It's old Leicestran. Bits and pieces of it made its way into modern Fodlani, but it's not exactly readable unless you know it."

"But _ you _ can read it?"

"Not very well," Claude admitted. "But it's got some structures similar to middle Khidran, so I'm making my way through it. Slowly." He frowned. "I borrowed some reference texts from Seteth, but even with them it's like solving a coded message."

"So why are ya wasting your time with books you can't read?"

"I am reading it! Slowly."

"What's it all about then?" Cyril asked.

"Oh, it's mostly old religious texts." Claude closed the book with a soft thud, attention shifting back to Cyril. "I'm looking into the older worship of the goddess prior to the founding of the Seiros church. Most ideas were absorbed, but there's some details left out of the modern faith entirely. Of course, there's also additions after the church was established."

"If you're so interested in worship of the goddess, shouldn't you just attend the church?" Cyril crossed his arms and tossed Claude a glare. "Ya know, like Seteth keeps telling you to do. I know you grew up in Almyra and all, but you're going to inherit a position in Fodlan, right? You can't avoid the church if you're gonna be a noble."

"Oh Cyril, don't you turn against me too!" Claude cried with an overdramatic sigh. "Besides, I did attend the sermons. For the first month. But after I finished reading the scripture, there wasn't much more to get out of them. What I'm interested in isn't the goddess per se."

"...so what are you interested in?" Cyril asked hesitantly. Claude was overly fond of toeing the line of blasphemy in holy places, although he supposed he was an accomplice now that he had fallen back into the rituals of Almyra's temples.

"The past." Claude grinned as he sat himself upright on his bed, an excited glint in his eye. "After a thousand years, everything fades from human memory. Books are lost, oral traditions mutate, and even stone can wear away. All that's left are distorted pictures in the form of stories or legends. But, if you take multiple distorted pictures--multiple myths and religious texts--distill them down and compare them, then eventually, you can get a rough sketch of the truth. Isn't that exciting?"

Cyril shrugged. "I'm more interested in the present."

"Fair enough," Claude said, grin showing teeth. "But, the present is built on the past. If you don't know how the foundation was made, you might be dooming yourself when building upon it for the future."

"...were you some kind of scholar or something before you came here?"

"The opposite," Claude laughed. "I'm from a military family. My father apprenticed me to the army as soon as I could ride a horse."

"That's awful," Cyril said before he could stop himself.

The lack of wind and rain did not erase the wreckage left behind by a passing storm. The lack of a war did not mean peace.

After the final treaty with the Leicester Alliance was signed, the people that had left their villages tried to return to their ancestral lands only to find the soil too damaged to till. Grazing lands stamped out. Wells turned sour. 

The land was still Almyra's, yet it was lost all the same.

Clans fought to divide the remaining resources. Others turned to banditry. The dead did not return, but many followed them into the thereafter. The army was more interested in bringing stability by settling disputes than by aiding those too weak to cause turmoil.

After all, it was easy to fight, to fall back into the patterns of war. Peace was much harder. 

So he too had allowed himself to rejoin that pattern and entered the army as an apprentice. Too overwhelmed to refuse, they had taken him in and put him to work.

"That's awful," Cyril repeated dully.

The smile faded from Claude's face. He swung his feet over the edge of his bed and dipped his head so that his eyes were level with Cyril's. "It wasn't in Khidr," Claude said quietly. "It was a proper apprenticeship in Parsa. I'm sorry I made you think of yours."

"I-it's fine," Cyril said quickly, eager to divert the topic away from himself. "The army in Parsa, huh? No wonder you ride like you're from there."

"You're too kind," Claude said with a wan smile. "I started riding early for a Khidran, but it was still late compared to someone from Kamangir. Their only real rivals were the soldiers from Temujin."

Cyril pressed on, grateful for the thread Claude was giving him. "They had Temuji soldiers too?"

"Sure. You know what the Immortal Corps are right?"

_ The finest wyvern riders we have to offer! _declared his father's ringing voice in his head.

"Wyvern riders from Khidr," Cyril said.

Claude's head bobbed back and forth. Half nod, half shake--half correct. "One division is. Each of the five provinces offers a selection of their soldiers to join the Immortal Corps. We send our wyvern riders. The Kamangi and Temuji send their equestrians. Together, they make up the army under direct control of the king."

"Is that why your father is in Parsa?" Cyril's eyes widened. "He's part of the Immortal Corps?"

The corners of Claude's mouth twitched upwards at Cyril's shock. "He was, but he's retired from that."

"You could sound a little more excited!" Claude held a finger up to his lips, and Cyril's mouth flew shut. Quieter, "It was a big deal when one of our wyverns got picked by one of the riders from the corps--"

Ah. That was why they had the money to go to Anadolu for the festival that year, Cyril thought. One of their wyverns had been chosen.

"...would you have joined the Immortal Corps too?" 

"You make it sound so easy," Claude said, letting out another muffled chuckle. "It's no small thing to be allowed into the Immortal Corps, but doubly so for someone like me."

Cyril tilted his head, confused. "Why's that?"

"Because I'm Fodlani."

A simple statement of fact. One that Cyril already knew. 

And yet, it was disorienting. Like caught gears that suddenly clinked back into place to spin the hands of a long stopped clock. It hadn't felt odd before, but now that he was aware of it, his previous thoughts felt acutely wrong.

Up until then, he had thought of Claude as Almyran. In a place where his features stood out and he was all too eager to seek the reflections of it in Claude, it was easy to forget the parts of Claude that blended in with the rest of Fodlan. 

In Almyra, the opposite would be true. There, the parts that marked Claude as someone bearing blood from Fodlan would be surfaced as the most obvious part of him. Cyril wondered idly how he would've seen Claude if they had met in Almyra.

Where would Claude have sought his reflection there? In Khidr, it was rare, but not unheard of for there to be children that bore Fodlani blood. It was impossible for there to be none after 100 years of contact, even if that contact was war.

But in Kamangir, Claude would've been as much a bright poppy among the tiny starflowers as Cyril was at Garregg Mach. Deep within Almyra, far from the borders of Fodlan, Parsa was more likely to host those of countries to the north and east of Almyra than the ones that dwelled in the walled off west.

Except, perhaps--"Did you know the crown prince?"

Claude lifted an eyebrow. "The _crown __prince _?"

"H-his mother is also from Fodlan," Cyril said. "Last I heard, he and his mother lived in Parsa, and he's only a little older than you, so...I thought--"

"Oh, yes." Claude nodded somberly. "I knew the prince."

Cyril's eyes widened further. "R-really?!"

"Of course," Claude chirped, voice taking on a sweet lilt and lips curling to match it. "I took every meal in the royal palace. I spent _ every _ waking moment with the prince." He pressed his hands to his chest and pushed out a dreamy sigh. "I was there so often, the queen would laugh and call me her son. The king himself--"

"I get it, I get it!" Cyril cried, face growing red with embarrassment. "It was a stupid suggestion."

The sweetness drew aside to unveil the rot beneath, and Claude's smile twisted into a sneer. "Oh no, please Cyril. By all means, continue comparing me to the prince."

The sarcasm dripped from Claude's words, and Cyril flinched at their bite. But as his own suggestions sunk in properly, the bite of Cyril's guilt ate at him more than Claude's mocking.

After all, the prince was an existence that no one wished for.

Everything surrounding his birth had been inauspicious.

The marriage of his parents had gone unblessed by temple or family. The day of his birth fell upon the winter solstice; the long night when the gods were too embroiled with their battle against the darkness to give their patronage. The aftermath of it left his mother unable to bear another child.

Even the holy people of Obodas, usually so removed from Almyran affairs, had sent one of their own to the court with a warning. The prince was one of cursed blood, the holy woman had said. One who would bring ruin to Almyra.

Perhaps the king did not care for the prince. Even Cyril's parents, who never expected him to rise to the lordly status befitting his name, had at least given him a name so that he may be blessed with the possibility. 

The king had named the child _ Khalid_, as if to remind all who heard it, _ yes_: this was the child born on the long night that stretched to eternity. The night that could devour even the stars.

Yet, the king would not name another as Khidr's king candidate, even among the more acceptable children produced from other wives. So perhaps despite it all, the king did love that child.

But Almyra did not, Cyril was certain of that. He bore the title of crown prince, but he had little hope of succeeding his father, not when the council's approval of his father was tenuous at best and their approval of him was nonexistent. It was commonly thought that once the king's reign had ended, the throne would be passed back into the hands of the Kamangi, who had chosen a king candidate that was widely beloved. Even so, the holy woman's warning hung over them like an impurity.

People prayed for Almyra to be freed from the curse, but the prince, like his name, was an undying monster. It was an often repeated story that the prince was once given a poison potent enough to instantly kill a grown man ten times over. 

The prince survived. It wasn't natural. It wasn't human.

And Cyril had compared Claude to someone like that. To someone that stood as the worst reflection for Claude to be judged against. To someone that in all likelihood, Claude had to condemn, just as Cyril repeatedly condemned the Almyrans. 

For all his oddities, Claude had done his best to show him kindness. Cyril gripped the front of his tunic in his hands as he bowed his head low.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have compared you to someone like that. You're nothing like the prince. You're...I think you're a good person, Claude."

"...thanks, Cyril."

Cold. Biting. 

Cyril flinched, but forced himself to lift his head. "Really, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"I'm not upset about being compared to the prince," Claude said, flashing a smile sharp enough to cut through stone.

"You can be honest. It was my fault this time."

The smile only hardened. "I am honest."

"No you're not. No one likes being compared to someone like that."

"Ah, yes. So many fanciful rumors surrounding him, that prince." Claude's fingers drummed against his cheek. Cyril swallowed nervously, uncertain whether or not he wanted to know how the rumors had been delivered to Claude. "It's amusing, don't you think?"

"W-what is?" Cyril said.

The drumming fingers stopped, and Claude fixed Cyril with a steady gaze. "We celebrate the ability to survive to such an extent that we give the title of 'Immortals' to those who are accepted into our strongest army. Yet the title of immortal for the prince would just be another sign of him being cursed. If it were anyone else, wouldn't it be a sign of favor from the gods?"

Cyril stared. "...you think it's a blessing then?" he asked slowly.

"A blessing?" Another mirthless laugh of amusement. "That's a dramatic take. There's as many truths as there are observers, but I'd wager the one truth that remains when no one is looking is quite plain."

_ Look, Cyril. That's the king _, his mother had said, pointing to the viewing platform set at the far side of the festival field.

Cyril had torn his eyes from the Temuji horserider to look. The setting sun dragged their shadows over the festival field, but the source of the shadows were small figures in the distance. Indistinct shapes in robes that he supposed were fine when seen up close. The king had been draped lazily over his seat, and the prince was pressed against the platform's guard rail, hands gesturing wildly to the horse ring.

A shout had risen as the horserider swung herself from one horse to another, and Cyril's attention had returned to the festival field, king and prince forgotten.

"Maybe," Cyril said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took awhile to write because there were 10 different topics I wanted them to have and like, no way to fit it all in.
> 
> This is also a good time to put a disclaimer that this will be making up some pretty out there stuff down the line. It is fanfic after all, but just a warning so no one is expecting this to keep everything within the lines of what the game stated as fact. I'm trying not to do anything that is impossible in canon, but canon left a lot of room for wild conjecture.
> 
> Edit: Ok as of this writing, Claude's real name was confirmed to be Khalid and to have had half-siblings, so this chapter was updated to account for that. Previously his name was "Lail".


	20. Feast

He hadn't exactly planned to avoid Claude, but he did stop visitations to his room. As far as he could tell, Claude's attitude towards him hadn't changed a bit, and that only increased his discomfort. He _ had _ upset Claude, of that he was certain regardless of Claude's assurances. What eluded him was the _ why _. None of his apologies found their mark, and how could they when Claude gave no inclination to what the target might be. To the end, Claude had just sat there, laughing and smiling, each one used to build a wall between them, stone by stone. 

He hated this feeling most of all. Nothing had been settled. Something was still lurking.

A punishment that was in waiting was worse than the one that struck immediately.

He knew he should try again. Talk to Claude. But what if he failed? What if--

"Hey, what are you doing out here by yourself?" a voice boomed from down the hall. Thudding footsteps followed and by the time Cyril turned around, Raphael had already reached him. Before he could get a word out, Raphael clapped him once on his back and Cyril stumbled forward. The momentum continued as Raphael pushed him by the shoulders, guiding him down the hallway to the place where Ignatz was waiting.

"No one should be missing from the feast!" Raphael said, seemingly oblivious to how much he was steering Cyril. "This ain't the time to work. It's time to celebrate! Not every day the Golden Deer win the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. Not even every year."

"I didn't participate," Cyril protested. "I just watched."

"Yeah? Flayn just watched too, and she's at the feast!"

"Flayn is part of the class. Officially."

"And you're as good as official," Raphael dismissed. "You train with us, don't ya? I train with you more than I train with Flayn."

"That's probably because axes aren't her strong point." And never would be if Seteth had any say in it. The thought of Flayn charging forward with a battle axe raised high was accompanied by a vision of Seteth's face, ghost-white as he fainted from a mix of shock and horror.

"Don't be like that!" Raphael said, whine in his voice. "Claude was asking about you too."

Cyril couldn't help but flinch at the mention of Claude. Raphael missed it, but Ignatz who stood in front of them did not. "Is something wrong?" Ignatz asked.

"Of course not," Cyril said quickly.

Ignatz's lips drew into a thin line, clearly unconvinced. "Umm, if you really don't want to go to the feast, we won't force you." He gave a look to Raphael who dropped his hand from Cyril's shoulder immediately. "But, I'm sure everyone would like to see you there."

Why they would he couldn't understand, but it wasn't as though he liked to make a habit of disappointing people either. "I'll go," Cyril said with a sigh. Ignatz beamed immediately.

The sounds of the feast could be heard long before Cyril passed through the doors of the dining hall, Raphael and Ignatz hovering near him on both sides as if they were afraid he'd change his mind. The sound became almost overwhelming once Raphael pushed open the doors.

Students often ate at different times. It was a rare occasion when the entire student population would be gathered in the dining hall at once, and even when full, there wasn't nearly this much shouting. 

Two steps into the dining hall, and Caspar ran up to Raphael, demanding an arm wrestling match. Raphael complied and let Caspar pull him to a table near the center of the dining hall where a ring of people had gathered.

Off to the side, Lorenz and Sylvain were red-faced and loud-mouthed, reciting competitive flirtations to a laughing Hilda. Marianne sat in her shadow, as close to a laugh as he'd ever seen on her face. 

Not far from them, Claude sat in a huddle with the other house leaders. None of the Golden Deer were with him, but Dimitri was accompanied by Dedue, and Edelgard had Dorothea half draped over her shoulders while Hubert sat on her free side. 

Each of the tables were groaning under the weight of food and plates. The smell of succulent pheasant, honeyed hams, and wonderfully fresh bread wafted throughout the room, mixing pleasantly with the smell of wine that hung in the air. Cyril was slightly shocked to see the number of plates that Flayn had stacked beside her. To her left, Lindhart was face down on the table, although Cyril was uncertain whether that was from the alcohol or from being Lindhart.

Flayn's perky smile widened when Cyril and Ignatz seated themselves across from her. "Isn't this wonderful?" she tittered, vacuuming even more food into her mouth. "When Claude spoke of a feast, I never expected it to be of such magnitude."

"I doubt the teachers were expecting this either," Ignatz said with a laugh.

"Oh, they definitely weren't."

Cyril jumped, and from the way Ignatz and Flayn snapped their necks to face the direction of the speaker, he could tell they hadn't noticed the approach either. 

Shamir slid herself onto the bench beside Cyril and reached for a warm bun from the basket. "Good to see you here," she said, inclining her head slightly at Cyril.

"What are you doing here?" Cyril asked.

"Supervising. The other knights are here to supervise as well."

A loud crash sounded, accompanied by Catherine's boisterous laugh. Cyril turned to see Ferdinand on the ground with Catherine standing next to him. Leonie gave a whoop and raised Catherine's hand up in victory. The crowd that had gathered around them gave a cheer, and Catherine soaked it all up.

"Well, _ I'm _here to supervise," Shamir said without turning around. She jutted her chin towards Flayn. "Surprised Seteth is allowing you around all this alcohol."

Flayn gave a sniff of exaggerated indignation. "As a student of the Golden Deer, my brother cannot keep me from class events sanctioned by the teachers and house leaders. Besides," she grinned, "he knows I can drink like...well, a fish as they say it?" She giggled to herself. "Such an amusing expression."

"I don't believe you," Cyril said.

Flayn smiled sweetly as she pulled the goblet next to Lindhart's head towards her. In one smooth motion, she threw her head back and tipped all its contents into her mouth. "I cannot say I am very fond of the taste," Flayn admitted to Cyril and Ignatz's stares. "However, I can hold it down quite well."

"Better or worse than Catherine?" Shamir asked, lifted eyebrow betraying her surprise.

There was another loud cackle from Catherine. "I would say better," Flayn said.

"Attention! Attention!" Claude's voice echoed. In a surprisingly elegant movement for a man who was very clearly tipsy, Claude stepped atop one of the emptier tables near the center of the dining hall. "A game of wits and talent is about to begin!" he bellowed with all the grandiosity of a merchant hawking his wares. "And the winner of which will earn--absolutely nothing! _ Except _ perhaps some of the honor lost to the eagle and lion, should they emerge victorious this time."

A mix of boos and cheers rose together in a din. Ignatz merely laughed softly, but Cyril could hear Flayn putting her best effort into a whoop from behind him. 

Claude fanned both jeers and support towards him as if it were all the same. "A contest of song and poetry," he continued once the crowds settled down. "Each contestant will compose verses on the spot, and the last word of the previous contestant must be the first word of the next. Now then, from the Black Eagles is an indomitable wall! The diva of Enbarr--Dorothea!" With a flourish, Claude swept his hand behind him. On cue, Dorothea stepped atop the table as if it was center stage where the spotlight shined. 

"Is there anyone who dares challenge her?" From his side, Dorothea tilted her head, smile quirked so that Cyril could see the question repeated in the shape of her lips.

"That's underhanded!" Ingrid cried, wine doubling her indignation. "Dorothea's a _ professional _."

Claude shook his head, tutting all the while. "The Blue Lions have no reason to fret. After all, you have Annette--yes, you Annette! Don't try to shrink away." The finger he threw out towards her was like a spell, drawing everyone's eyes right to the red-haired girl who was trying to melt under the table. "Creepity Creep is a song that stirs the soul. You have nothing to be ashamed of and everything to gain by challenging Dorothea."

The red on her face was almost definitely from embarrassment. "Claude," Annette whined, dragging out the syllable of his name, "please don't talk about my silly songs!"

"No, I agree with Claude for once." If the words weren't coming out of Felix's mouth, Cyril wouldn't have believed that he was speaking. His face was still its usual pale color, but Cyril suspected he was slightly drunk anyways. "The Waltz of the Swamp Beasties is great."

The hands that covered Annette's face flew off so that she could send sharp glares his way. "Felix, shut up!"

"Aww, but Annie, I'd love to hear you sing," Mercedes said.

"Mercie, not you too!"

"Annette!" Dimitri shouted from his table. "I would be honored if you would represent us."

"Your highness..." Annette made a sound between a groan and a sob, but she stood to make her way to the table where Claude and Dorothea had staged themselves. Cheers followed her foot-dragging journey to the center of the dining hall, drowning out her sounds of displeasure. She ignored Claude's hand to clamber atop the table unaided.

"Here, some liquid courage." Claude produced a mug of wine from seemingly nowhere and handed it to Annette.

She gave the mug a sniff and grimaced at the smell, but after a quick look around the crowd, she drank a deep gulp.

"Now then! Who will represent the Golden Deer?" Claude said over Annette's coughing. "Lorenz?"

"Don't be preposterous!" Lorenz snapped, face already as red as the rose in his lapel.

With a scoff, the showman disappeared and Claude's normal tone returned. "What? I thought song and poetry were a noble past time. Come on, I know you have a secret poetry collection out there."

"O-of course not!" His face was now redder than a rose. "And even if I did, I would not waste them on petty games."

Claude rolled his eyes. "Yeah, alright. Hilda?"

"Ugh, do I look like I want to _ think _ right now, Claude?" Her head leaned back until she was lying on the table. "You're already up there. You do it!"

"Then by popular request, I will regale you all with various tunes from around the world," Claude said with a twirling bow. "Ignatz! Give a word to start us off."

"Oh, um...deer?"

"Of course he'd say that," Dorothea said, making Ignatz duck his head.

Before Ignatz could offer a different word, Claude piped up, "But the decision is final. Start us off, Dorothea! You're the professional after all."

"I hope you don't think that'd be enough to throw me off." With a toss of her head, Dorothea let out a sweet note, tremulous in its vibrato and pitch hitting exactly where it needed to in order to cut straight through the tipsy haze that enveloped the majority of revelers. Cyril felt a jolt go up his spine, and it was only after Dorothea had already continued to the next line of her aria that he realized he was now sitting straight backed on the bench. Her lyrics were silly lines about a deer hunt, but her voice rang with such force that Cyril was certain if he could afford opera tickets, this would be the centerpiece of the show.

When she stopped, the hall burst into applause and Dorothea took a bow like it was curtain call. "Who's next?" Dorothea said with a smirk.

"Tough act to follow," Claude said, sighing. "The next word then is 'salt'. Annette?"

"I'm going last!" Annette took another deep gulp of wine.

"Leaving me out to dry, huh? Alright, that's fine. I'll soften them up for you." Claude coughed several times to clear his throat.

"Don't embarrass yourself too much, okaaaay?" Hilda drawled.

Claude's answer was his verse. His voice was surprisingly pleasant to listen to. It certainly lacked the brilliance of Dorothea's, but it held the tune sure and true, a well practiced instrument that dove between the notes with ease. He didn't try to copy the operatic style of Dorothea, instead, his jaunty tune matched with his equally jaunty lyrics about sailing as a privateer. There was an infectious sort of beat to it that spread throughout the audience until rhythmic thuds from tapping feet accompanied the song.

Someone laughed beside Cyril. _ Shamir _ had laughed beside Cyril.

"Where'd he learn that?" she said, trace of the laugh still on her face.

"Learn what?" Cyril asked.

"He's singing a Dagdan sea shanty. The lyrics are different, but I know that tune." The smile didn't disappear. Usually they flitted away like butterflies when Shamir caught someone looking. For the first time, Cyril wondered if Shamir ever felt nostalgic for her homeland.

Claude ended his verse to another round of applause. Even Dorothea clapped politely beside him. Annette looked red in the face, alcohol at last taking effect.

As if to keep the courage from leaking out of her, Annette did not wait for any prompting before launching into her own verse. Claude had left her an awkward 'driftwood' as his last word but Annette picked it up without missing a beat. The tune was simple, catchy, and certain to be something he caught himself whistling if he heard it too much. The lyrics were filled with rhyme and repetition. It reminded him of songs they'd teach children to pass the time while waiting for their sheep to graze or the wyverns to finish bathing in the sun. Annette's energetic pantomiming of the words only added to that impression.

Her face was even redder than when she began her verse as she ended it to cheers. Claude clapped her on the back, mouthing a _ you were great! _that Cyril doubted Annette heard.

They did a quick tally of the round's winner by the strength of applause and immediately began the next round. Dorothea seemed determined to outdo herself, Claude switched genres entirely, and Annette managed to wrangle her nerves.

And so they went, one after another. Loose points were being tallied, but it mattered less and less as the rounds came and went.

Feet tapped, people hummed along. Dorothea leapt from the table and dragged Petra into a dance, and people joined them. Soon, almost everyone had dragged themselves to the floor surrounding the makeshift stage, switching their improvised steps with each change in verse. A wild whirl of spinning arms and awkward feet, free to do as they pleased.

Flayn had dragged Cyril and Ignatz into the crowds and it was all too easy to be swept away in the current as they all circled one another without regard. Turning this way and that, heads spinning until Cyril was dizzied by the movements. One moment, Ashe was in front of him. Another turn and it was Mercedes. He even caught sight of Bernadetta laughing as she was swung around by Alois.

The world blurred, the air warmed, and it was like he was drunk off the energy that bubbled around him. His cheeks hurt and his stomach ached. Laughing, Cyril realized. He had been laughing.

At last the final round arrived. Dorothea sang her final verse, voice crackling from use, but all the more powerful in its imperfection.

"Guess I gotta go another step to win this round," Claude said seriously.

From the first note, the hazy warmth was slashed. Two tones overlapped each other, as if there was another behind Claude singing along with him. It echoed through the halls unlike the songs that Claude had attempted before, ringing deep and low.

Eyes were on Claude, staring. Cyril wondered if they found the sound of it unearthly.

But this time, he knew the tune, even if the words didn't match. He could remember his father's grins when the day's herding lead them to a valley perfect for such songs. The old songs sung since who knows when.

_ Through the mountain passes, unstopped by stone. Through the verdant land, the summer winds blow. _

Cyril almost wanted to laugh. Khidr had taken its name from this song. Claude was too brazen.

The clapping sounded enthusiastic and confused once Claude finished. "How did you do that?" Dorothea asked over the applause. "I'd wager it'd grab some attention in Enbarr."

Claude laughed, almost choking on the wine he was downing. "It's a mountain song. I'm afraid it loses its luster when contained in an opera hall or _ this _ fine establishment."

The points were tallied, and by a narrow margin, Dorothea was crowned the winner of the game. The Blue Lions surrounded Annette comfortingly as she stepped off the table, although she was most likely too mellowed by the alcohol to be too upset about losing. The Black Eagles were much more enthusiastic when they crowded around Dorothea. 

Claude continued to stand on the table, and motioned towards Dimitri and Edelgard to come towards him. Dimitri complied easily enough, but Edelgard required a playful shove from Dorothea before she stepped up the bench and onto the tabletop to join the other two house leaders.

"I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting _ quite _ this sort of scale when I proposed a feast," Claude said, voice somehow still ringing after ten rounds of singing. "The success of this feast I lay at Edelgard's feet."

Edelgard rolled her eyes at Claude's flourished bow, small smile betraying her amusement. "I'm sure you would've schemed your way into enlisting the kitchen staff even if I hadn't offered to do so for you."

"Oh, absolutely," Claude said without a hint of shame. "But what trouble that would've been. Your fine prestige was a far better tool for the occasion."

"I apologize for not being of more use," Dimitri started sheepishly.

"No no no," Claude shushed. "I did not gather you both up here to single you out Dimitri. You did your part by getting your house to show up. Really, that's what matters, even more than the food." He turned away from the other House Leaders, words directed to the revelers at large. "Today, our classes clashed, learned from one another, and now we are all gathered here as one. That's what matters most. That we are all here. Together. For no reason other than to celebrate and enjoy each others company."

Claude took Dimiri and Edelgard's hands in his own and gathered them together in front of him. "Divided as we may be into houses, there's nothing stopping us from forming bonds across those lines. If we do, then I'm sure that feasts like today's will come to pass and come to pass often. Well then…"

Before either could react, he lifted their gathered hands up and placed a quick kiss on the backs of both of them.

"C-claude!" Dimitri cried, flustered. Edelgard merely raised an eyebrow.

"To our continued friendship!" Claude said, flinging both hands from his own before fleeing off the table to a peel of laughter. Edelgard joined in that laughter as she stepped off the table, leaving Dimitri to quickly follow after her.

Even without the singing game, people continued to whirl about. Around each other, around the room. From the center to the sides where food still made the tables yawn under their weight.

Cyril was cutting a particularly juicy slice of roast beef at Raphael's insistence when he felt someone ruffle his hair.

"Good to see you made it!" he heard Claude say.

Cyril turned away from the voice. "Y-yeah. It's been...fun."

_ Thump. Thump. Thump. _ Claude patted Cyril's head. "Huh. Any particular reason you're avoiding me?"

"I'm not--"

"I'm drunk, not stupid, Cyril. Come on now, out with it."

Slowly, Cyril turned to look at Claude. A sloppy grin was set in his red-tinged face. Not a single hint of anger touched his features, but that didn't calm Cyril. "I'm sorry for comparing you to the prince," he blurted out.

"You're _ still _ hung up over that?" Claude said incredulously. "I told you I wasn't mad about it. Why can't you accept that?"

"Because you were upset at _ something _ !" Cyril cried heatedly. "A-and I can't figure out _ what _."

"Well yes, but not being able to figure it out isn't your fault…"

"But you being upset _ is _. You say you're fine now, but...if I can't figure it out now, if I can't apologize properly, then you'll just be upset about it again the next time you get mad at me. And--" Cyril swallowed. "I don't want you to get so mad you hate me."

Claude's features straightened, suddenly more focused than he would've expected from a drunk man. "Cyril, I would never hate you."

"You can't promise that--"

"Yes I can. I can't guarantee you won't hate _ me _ one day, but I can promise that I would never hate you. I might get angry, I might get hurt, but I bet I've stepped on your toes plenty, haven't I? And somehow, you don't hate me yet."

"But…"

"I accept your apology."

"I don't even know what I'm apologizing for!" Cyril protested.

"It's accepted anyways," Claude said. "You've worried about it for so long, how could I not?"

"But--"

"_ Here _." A small cup of wine was suddenly thrust under Cyril's nose. Hesitantly, Cyril took it while Claude poured himself a cup. "On the drink of the gods, let me swear that all is forgiven."

"...this is just monastery wine. I know, I've worked the barrels."

"Then it's the drink of the _goddess_, fermented in Rhea's holy presence. Close enough, Cyril. Wine is wine." Claude clinked his cup against Cyril's. "Now _ drink _."

Claude downed his first. After a moment, under Claude's flat look, Cyril tipped the wine down his throat. It burned like liquid fire all the way, warming him to the tips of his toes. Perhaps it was the heady rush of alcohol, more potent than even burning incense, but when Cyril looked at Claude again, the laughing grin seemed lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing Claude was doing is called overtone singing! If you haven't heard it before, you should give it a listen. I think Mongolian throat singing is the most famous and where I heard it first, but it's practiced in various parts of Central Asia as well as other parts of the world.
> 
> The province name for Khidr was originally picked because that was the birth name of the general eventually known as "Barbarossa", but it can also mean "the verdant one", which was a happy coincidence but I'm rolling with it.


	21. Oil and Fire

"What do ya mean _ fifteen _gold?! Last week I was charged five! If you don't make it more reasonable, I'm gonna take my business elsewhere."

"Then leave," the merchant said without flinching. His eyes never left the knife in his hands as he continued to whittle away at the wood, curls of bark peeling off and falling to the floor. Cyril might as well have been the scraps of wood that had fallen to the merchant's feet--out of sight, out of mind. It was a carefully crafted image of nonchalance, betrayed only by the hard set of his jaw. The twitch from the tension was just barely visible from the way the line between the booth's shadow and the noon sun trembled across his face.

Cyril chewed on his lip. The merchant's attitude towards him was about as good as he could hope for enough given the circumstances, but it didn't change his problem. This was the eighth merchant. If things continued like this, it would be impossible to finish purchasing everything on the list with the money he had been given. But threatening to leave had already failed as a tactic. What else could he do…

"You can't really be doing business like this!"

Instinctively, Cyril moved away to make room for the new customer that had slid himself beside Cyril at the booth's counter. A bubble of panic rose up when he saw who it was.

"A-ashe!"

"You sold this to me for five gold not half an hour ago," Ashe said, an unfitting scowl on his face. "Nothing wrong with a profit, but isn't this going a little too far?"

The knife stopped, like it was caught in a particularly stubborn grain of the wood. "How I conduct my business is none of your concern."

"Ashe, it's fine," Cyril muttered, tugging at Ashe's sleeve.

Ashe didn't seem to notice. "But it is the concern of the ones who run the market. A merchant can only charge thrice the cost at most, and I know you already squeezed the most out of me with five gold. Why don't I have a talk with the guards?"

The head flew off the figure the merchant was whittling. His eyes flashed with anger as he stabbed his knife into the table and leaned towards Ashe. "I'll tell the guards that I gave it to you at almost no profit, boy. Fifteen would be within the range then wouldn't it?"

"Ashe!" Cyril hissed, tugging harder. It was clear where this was going, and he wanted no part of it.

Again, Ashe ignored him. "Don't lie--"

"If you have so many concerns about the cost of my wares, take it up with _ that _ one." The merchant flicked a finger at Cyril. "Those Almyrans have been attacking the Alliance ports for weeks and pillaging as they please."

Cyril flinched, hoping against all signs that the merchant would not--

The merchant turned his head in one harsh motion, glare sharper than the knife he had dug into the booth. His fingers drummed against the knife's hilt, itching to draw it out. "Up and down the coastline, and now they even attack _ Deirdriu _ . Just couldn't keep their claws to themselves. Couldn't keep them out of my _ family _." The fingers closed on the knife. "Well, the goddess watches over us, and her knights won't allow this attack on her blessed lands."

Ashe stepped between Cyril and the merchant, throwing an arm out to push Cyril partially behind him. "I don't see what Cyril has to do with those pirates."

"You think _ that _ one is any different?" the merchant sneered. "The lack of honor is bred into them. Twenty years that king of theirs called for an end to a war, and it took thirteen to settle. If the nation was made of a trustworthy stock, you think it would've taken that long?" His eyes returned to Ashe. "You best watch your back, boy."

The milling of the crowds were beginning to slow around them, feet stopping to listen in on the spat. Gazes that would've passed over without a second thought sharpened themselves on Cyril's back.

He clutched Ashe's arm and made a run for it before the slowing throngs of people became a net that closed in around them. Ashe made a sound of protest, but this time, Cyril was the one who did the ignoring. His lungs gulped down air and his legs swung to swallow the ground. It was only after they ducked behind the grove just outside the marketplace that Cyril let go of his vice grip on Ashe's arm.

"What was _ that _?" Cyril said angrily, turning to glare at Ashe. "I kept telling you to stop!"

Ashe looked taken aback. "B-but that merchant--"

"Wasn't being fair? Ya think I don't _ know _ that?!" Cyril ran a hand down his face. "This is just something that happens, alright? Every time the Almyrans decide to be idiots and cause trouble, it all comes back on me, and the smartest thing to do is to _ not _ piss people off even more. Did you even notice the way people were looking at me? _ Everyone _ was listening to the merchant, Ashe. Were you planning on fighting them all? _ Could _ you fight them all?"

"I-I'm sorry," Ashe said, paling. "I didn't realize…"

"Yeah. I know. I appreciate you trying to stand up for me, but that was…" He squeezed his eyes shut, frustrated that his mind was refusing to find the words that could give Ashe a neat summation of the all encompassing _ everything _ that made the thin line between help and harm. "...it's just different for me, alright? I gotta be more careful about things."

"...I understand."

Cyril suppressed a snort. He couldn't see how Ashe could understand, not really. Not just from his vague explanation. 

Even Cyril didn't fully understand the right way to keep disaster at bay. He could only grope around in the dark, blindly navigating the constant shift of hatred and neutrality as the moods changed by the day. All just trial and error, each step possibly the misstep that would make his previous efforts all for naught.

But Ashe meant to do right by him. He supposed that was the best he could hope for.

"...can you help me with something?"

"Of course!" Ashe said immediately.

"I don't think I can finish buying everything I need," Cyril said, handing over his list of items and gold pouch. "Not with the merchants like this. But you should be able to."

"I'll wring every copper out of their prices," Ashe said solemnly.

Cyril let out a short laugh. "Get revenge for me."

Ashe gave a tentative smile before running back towards the merchant tents.

Cyril sighed and sank to sit at tree's roots as the breath left him. He hated days like this the most. It didn't hold true for those who lost loved ones to Almyran attacks, but at least those who weren't directly affected would forget that they hated Almyrans. They wouldn't _ like _ him, but it wouldn't feel like he had a target on his back at all times either. On those happier days, he could almost believe that the peace with Almyra would hold.

But of course it wouldn't. A week prior, the Golden Deer had gone with a contingent of the Knights of Seiros to defend Deirdriu against the Almyran Navy. Neither Shamir nor Byleth had informed him until they were already leaving.

Not for the first time, he wondered why it was like this. The current king's first act upon taking the throne was to call for a permanent ceasefire with Fodlan. For that at least, he had Cyril's begrudging gratitude. 

But something would always happen. Someone's pride would be pricked, some blood debt would be incurred, some fire would light the oil left behind by eighty years of war.

Almyra hated Fodlan. 

Cyril couldn't understand it. Almyra had invaded in the first place. The king at the time was eager to expand, only to be overwhelmed when their forces were spread thin by his foolish attempt to fight wars on multiple fronts. Almyrans had spat that Fodlan was the land of cowards, but Cyril preferred cowardice to the war-hungry people that filled Almyra.

Almyra hated Fodlan, and Cyril hated Almyra. He hated that there had been nothing he could say when the Gonerils had punished him for their bloodlust. He hated that there was nothing he could say now.

He hated that each notice of conflict twisted his stomach as he waited with bated breath, wondering if the skirmish would spread into a new war. 

For the past seven years, the skirmishes were just that; mostly involving the border armies, and never under the commands of the Alliance or Almyra at large. But battles were fought and people died, even as the first merchants of Almyra began to trade at the borders of Fodlan.

It was an imperfect peace, always ready to remind Cyril how fragile his position in Fodlan really was.

"Better be careful or you'll make your arms bleed."

Cyril fingers loosened their grip on his arms as his head jerked upwards to see Claude standing over him. "You're back," he said, dazed.

"We're back," Claude repeated. His voice was lacking the usual lilt of mirth, real or fake. 

Cyril swallowed. "What happened with the Almyran Navy?"

Claude's lips twisted strangely around his bared teeth, eyes hardening with cold light. Cyril wanted to shirk away. He had never seen fury on Claude's face before, but it had settled into place with frightening ease. "It wasn't the Almyran Navy. It was pirates using Almyra's name."

"Th-then everything's settled?" Cyril asked, hoping against the evidence of Claude's anger that it were true.

"Of course not," Claude said bitterly. "News has already spread that it was Almyrans. The borders are on high alert. It won't end with this."

A few days later, Claude was called to Deirdriu, his grandfather too weak to attend the roundtable meeting that had been hastily assembled. Hilda received a notice from her brother not too long after that.

The army at Fodlan's Locket had mistaken an Almyran merchant caravan for raiders. It wasn't until the Almyrans had been killed that the soldiers realized the carts had carried more fabrics than weapons.

Civilian blood cost something when spilled, and the Almyran army was eager to collect on the debt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was halfway through writing the specifics of why Almyra went to war with the non-Fodlan countries and some general history stuff/state of Almyran affairs when I realized that Cyril wouldn't think or know about any of that. Cyril's point of view can be hard to keep to when I just want a place to regurgitate the stuff I made up about Almyra's history alskdjfsldk


	22. The Price of Blood

Like most merchants that dealt with Fodlan, merchants from Almyra could not enter Fodlan themselves. Instead, they traded with Fodlani merchants that met them at designated ports and checkpoints. The flow of goods was strictly controlled and then further limited by what Fodlani merchants believed would turn a profit. Almyran gemstones were the first items that gained popularity in Fodlan. The way the Gonerils had cooed over the gemstones mined from Obodas had been the first time Cyril had heard them regard something Almyran with an emotion other than disgust. 

Slowly, more Almyran goods were being brought in, no longer regarded as worthless. Dragonsilk could be bought at the markets, although the prices of it made his eyes pop. New spices found their way into the monastery kitchens. He had once even overheard Claude discussing a type of drought and cold resistant grain with Dimitri and offering to request for a sample to be sent to farms in Faerghus.

More and more caravans had begun to seek their fortunes with the markets of Fodlan, hoping to capitalize on the naively absurd amounts of money that merchants there were willing to pay for their wares. 

Fodlan's Locket was one such checkpoint Almyran caravans could use to meet with Fodlani merchants. So, a caravan had approached the fortress late one evening, unaware that it had been forced into lockdown in response to the supposed Almyran naval attacks on Deirdriu. Convinced that they were a contingency of Almyran soldiers, Fodlan's Locket launched a swift attack and the majority of the caravan was slaughtered. Those who survived escaped back to Almyra and alerted the border forces.

"Y-you don't think this will blow up, do you?" Hilda asked after she finished her summary of Holst's letter. For the first time since she had made her promise in the dining hall, she was seeking out Cyril, worry outweighing her word.

Hilda was wringing her hands and Cyril wrung his own as well.

He wasn't sure what she was hoping to hear, but if it was the _ no _ that he also wished for, then there was no comfort he could provide.

"Claude got called to an emergency roundtable," Cyril said. "That's a big deal isn't it?"

Hilda grimaced. The expression came slow, as if there was no surprise tied to it. "Yes, but a roundtable doesn't have to mean they'll have to escalate it, right? Isn't there some way to just clear up the misunderstanding with the Almyrans--"

"People _ died _," Cyril said. "They won't let the blood debt go until it's collected."

There were few things honored more stringently than a blood debt. Perhaps it was because Almyra did battle so often that the ceremony of taking a life was bound by so many rules. It was only with rules that they could ease the push pull of the sin that the temples claimed killing to be, and the glory that it brought when dressed in the right feathers.

A man killing another for their land incurred a blood debt. A man killing another for their land on behalf of their nation did not.

But an army could still incur a blood debt. It was one thing to slaughter during wartime, and another thing entirely to do so when the ink on the treaty had already dried. Blood debts had been half the reason that treaties failed to stay settled for thirteen years. The people of Fodlan would not honor them, and the people of Almyra honored them even if it meant paying twice the lives to make sure that it was collected. A show of strength to remind enemies that they were not to be trifled with.

Sometimes, Cyril wondered if Almyran armies would force blood debts on purpose. They were always happy when there was an excuse to fight Fodlan. It was all pointless posturing. What would honoring a blood debt do? All the honor it gave them didn't resurrect the dead. It only sent them more company. 

"Well? How is it collected then?" Hilda asked when Cyril didn't continue.

Cyril's grip on his hand tightened. There were only two ways for an army to clear its debt.

One: the general heading the army that incurred the debt would accept responsibility and give their lives to the collectors.

That was impossible. The Leicester Alliance would never execute Holst to appease Almyra. He also didn't fancy telling Hilda that her brother would have to die.

So the answer he gave was, "When they come to attack, the army that owes the debt puts themselves at a disadvantage. If they accept the handicap, then the debt is cleared once they've had their fill of fighting."

That answer failed to comfort Hilda. "That's just setting people up to die!" she cried, mouth falling open.

"That's the point. You pay blood with blood." 

"And what if they take the chance to invade?!"

"They're not gonna," Cyril said flatly. "I told you, that's not the point. The point is to look tough, warn you off from doing it again, and once they're done they'll just go back and have a big feast to send off the dead."

It was clear from her frustrated groan halfway through his explanation that Hilda was no longer listening properly. 

He wondered if Claude was having any better luck at the roundtable. He was certain that Claude knew what this was, what had to be done. The only question that remained was whether or not he'd be able to convince them to do it. If he intended to become the next head of House Riegan, Claude would need to stave off a war, or his denial of being Almyran would fall on deaf ears as the Leicester Alliance purged itself of anyone they thought could resemble an Almyran.

That, and Claude had only come over recently from Almyra. He even had a fondness for it that Cyril did not understand. If war broke out between the two countries, could Claude still fight for Fodlan?

A two headed snake bites both hands.

_ The trouble with those born between two loyalties is that you never know which side they'll pick, _ Cyril's former captain had said when he turned away an orphan that had begged to be apprenticed into the army. The captain had shaken his head watching the child slink away, her hair still a shock of bright pink despite her efforts to cover it with dirt and ash. _ Perhaps they never pick. _

Cyril shook the memory away. Claude had chosen Fodlan, just as Cyril had. If even he failed to believe in Claude, then who would?

"Hilda."

Cyril turned toward the direction of the voice, and as expected, Byleth was approaching, a perfect calm against the storm of anxiety that had been brewing between him and Hilda.

"Oh, hey professor," Hilda said, hastily pasting on her usual lazy smile. "Did you need something?"

"There's another letter for you." There was just the barest suggestion of a frown on their face. Was it worry? "From Holst."

Hilda couldn't stop herself from snatching the paper from Byleth's hands. The corners of Byleth's mouth creased as their lip curled down. Definitely a frown. Definitely worry.

"What does it say?" they asked.

Hilda stared at the paper in her hands. "It...says that I'm requested at Fodlan's Locket."

"Your brother is stationed there," Byleth said.

"Yeah, he is," Hilda muttered, eyes still scanning the words on the paper over and over again as if they would change if she stared hard enough. "The Almyran forces are attacking in four days. Why are they asking me to go?! My brother is already there. How bad are they expecting it to get?"

A chill went down Cyril's spine. Four years ago, the Almyran border army had been lacking enough to resort to taking apprentices with them into battle. They were mainly used to shuttle supplies and messages between units, but that hadn't shielded them from seeing combat when they were intercepted by the soldiers at the Locket.

He had been one of them, running a message up a backroad when he had run right into the middle of a group of Fodlani soldiers. They had him surrounded before he could break from his shock, and made a coin flip decision whether he would live or die.

He lived, but he was still lost to Almyra. He suspected that the general heading the army had been more upset that the message never reached its destination. What was another child taken or killed by Fodlan when there were more that would throw themselves at their feet?

Out of sight, out of mind.

But he couldn't forget so easily. He had been the one to live that life after all. He had been the one who had to keep seeing those that had been taken with him.

"It'll take four days to get there by wyvern," Cyril said. "But we gotta leave now while it's still light out enough to travel."

Hilda blinked. "_ We _?"

"I'm going too," Cyril said.

"Cyril, we're fighting the Almyran army," Hilda said, frowning.

"None of them remember me anyways," he shrugged.

"That's not what I meant. These are people from your homeland!"

The same reason that they hadn't taken him when they fought the pirates. Cyril gritted his teeth. "Hilda, I got captured in a battle at the Locket. I don't want the same thing to happen to other kids."

Hilda paled. Cyril could see a lump traveling down her throat as she swallowed, oblivious to Byleth's inquisitive stare.

"What happened when you were captured?" Byleth asked.

"I got taken to House Goneril," Cyril said, watching Hilda fidget. "They said it's to reteach children to be proper followers of the goddess, but I think they just wanted some free servants. Some of us were sent to other houses in Alliance territory too."

The expression on Byleth's face would've seemed like dull surprise on any other's, but it was the most shock that Cyril had ever seen on them.

Hilda bowed low, long hair nearly sweeping to the ground. "Cyril, I'm sorry that happened, but I swear to you, there won't be any children taken in this battle."

Cyril shook his head. Hilda may have been the daughter of the head house, but he had heard enough to know that she had been determined to remove herself from its affairs. Her word held no weight against the will of her family. "You can't promise that Hilda. And maybe I can't do anything about it either, but I want to be there to see for myself."

"Alright," Hilda said, still frowning with concern. "If this is what you want. But...I can't predict what will happen during the battle. You might..."

"Die?" Cyril finished for her, causing Hilda to flinch.

"I'll go as well," Byleth said. "I'll watch over you both."

"I-I don't need to be watched!" Cyril protested.

"Oh, that's a great idea professor!" Hilda chirped, some of her usual cheer returning. "I'd definitely feel much better if you were there."

Byleth merely nodded before walking off. "Hey!" Cyril shouted after them.

"Cyril, please." Hilda's tone was suddenly serious. "Stay close to the professor."

"I'm not some kid--"

"You're barely fifteen! You absolutely are!" Hilda snapped. This time it was Cyril that jolted back. "I'm _ eighteen _ and I don't feel old enough for this. Just...stay close to them. Promise me that, Cyril."

Hilda's firm stare didn't break even after Cyril's glare. He conceded. "Fine."

Hilda nodded. "Well then, we leave in an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilda and Cyril's paralogue is going to end up taking the most chapters of this fic so far, but I think it was one of the more important things to happen to Cyril.


	23. Dividing the World (Thunder)

It was odd being inside Fodlan's Locket, listening to the muffled sounds of soldiers running to and fro from the inside. The thick walls were a shield. Safety. Yet his first instinct was to flee from its narrow, winding corridors that threatend to close in and choke him in its shadows. He wanted to run, fast as the wind to open skies, to open fields--

He shook himself. He was here to defend the fort, not escape it. A guest, not a prisoner. Even so, he tugged the cap that Hilda had given him a little lower over his brows as he followed after the soldier leading them to the war room.

Even before they rounded the final corner, he could hear raised voices in heated debate.

"If you don't want half your soldiers to die, then do as I say and draw back from the eastern wall. The Almyrans have no idea that the ballista can be moved there and we can draw them in--"

"I don't know who you think you are, but we answer to Holst. Not to you!"

The door to the room opened and its two occupants immediately turned to face them, the glare that they had been aiming at each other inadvertently fixing on the poor soldier who stood at the doorway.

"Claude?" Hilda said incredulously, stepping from behind the soldier. Once the three of them had entered the room, the soldier made a hasty retreat and shut the door behind them.

Seeing them, Claude's frustrated glare eased into a more relaxed expression. "Teach! Hilda! Good to see you didn't ignore the letter."

"Hey, even I answer my summons, alright?" Hilda put a hand on her hip. "What are you doing here?"

"The roundtable decided that the Locket needed fortification, but they were all _ very _ nervous about sending in aid from elsewhere, what with the inevitable Almyran invasion at the ports and all," Claude said, rolling his eyes. "So, I volunteered to come here on behalf of House Riegan. Although it seems my help isn't particularly welcome."

"Because your plan is foolish!" the other man fumed. "Why would we ever ask our soldiers to run--"

"It's a tactical retreat."

"It's is completely unheard of!"

"Be a little more flexible."

"Lady Hilda, you're in charge," the man said, drawing himself up and turning away from Claude. "We are under House Goneril after all, regardless of what one Riegan brat may think."

"Uhhh, well I think you should listen to Claude. He's usually pretty good with the whole strategy thing." The man looked affronted at her suggestion, but Hilda's concerns seemed to lay elsewhere. "What do you mean I'm in charge? Where's Holst?"

The man's frustration fell apart to make way for panic. "Lord Holst has fallen gravely ill."

"WHAT?!" Hilda shrieked.

Claude rubbed his ears from the impact of her voice. "Gravely ill is exaggerating it. It's something like food poisoning. The doctors are saying he'll get over the worst of it in a few days, but it is true that he won't be able to join us."

"Ugh, of course my brother does this!" Hilda said with an exasperated groan. A beat. Her face paled. "Wait...what about the Almyrans?" 

"Well, they're not going to delay their attack if that's what you're hoping for."

"We'll make do," Byleth said. 

"Right," Claude agreed. "So we'll have our soldiers withdraw from the eastern wall--"

"Lady Hilda will be giving orders!" the man snapped. "The Riegans haven't had a place in the Locket for over a decade. My family has served with the Gonerils here for three generations, and an upstart brat like you--"

"If you want to rest on your family's laurels then let me rest on mine. The Demon of the Throat was of House Riegan, not yours." The man's mouth clamped shut and Claude smiled. "Now why don't we discuss important matters, like what we'll be doing about the Almyrans?"

Byleth observed the map and markers spread out on the table at the room's center. "Are these enemy unit placements accurate?" 

"As far as we know, yes."

"The ballista may not be enough to keep them from breaking through the eastern wall once we've lured them there." Byleth shifted the markers on the map. "But there's a small valley between the eastern wall and the direction they'll be approaching from. If we can get a group of soldiers to flank them once they've entered that area, we would have the advantage."

"And then the ballista can focus on the wyvern riders," Claude said with a nod. "That would be the ideal plan, yes. But there aren't exactly paved roads around the fort. We'll need someone who is familiar with it to guide the soldiers or we run the risk of them running into impassable paths."

"I-I know the backroads," Cyril said.

Claude stiffened, body bending at rigid angles as he lowered his head to peek beneath Cyril's helmet. His head snapped back towards Byleth, eyes glaring daggers. "You brought _ Cyril _?"

"He asked to come," Byleth said without looking up from the map.

"And you _ let him _?"

The man in the room was trying to get a look at his face. Instinctively, Cyril shrunk further into his coat collar. "That's not the point right now," he said. "I can lead the soldiers to where they need to be."

Byleth nodded, picking up markers and putting them into place. Claude swept them off. "We are _ not _ sending Cyril out into the middle of a battle!"

With a snarl, Cyril slammed it back onto the map. "Why not? It's not like it'd be my first time!" He thought he could see a muscle jump under Claude's eye. A quickly controlled flinch.

"I don't recall having children stationed at the Locket," the man said, eyes narrowing. "Let me see your face."

Claude moved to stand between Cyril and the man. "You don't need to--"

"No, it's fine." It wasn't as though he could hide it forever. Even so, he couldn't stop his hand from shaking as he pulled the cap off his head. He did his best to stay still, hands spread harmlessly in front of him while the man flinched backwards, shock dawning on his face.

"An _ Almyran _?!"

"Cyril's from the monastery," Hilda said quickly, stepping forward. "He's my...classmate at the officer's academy."

"An A-almyran at the _ monastery _ ?! _ Classmate _ ? This child can not possibly be of age to be in the officer's academy. And to train an _ Almyran _ ?! The officer's academy was founded to _ fight _ the Almyrans!"

"He's Lady Rhea's ward."

"Pardon me for saying so Lady Hilda, but Lady Rhea made quite a scene only a few years ago regarding the presence of Almyrans within our households. I find it hard to believe that she would keep one at the monastery." The man glanced at Cyril, eyes narrowed into an impossible glint. Cyril bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself from snapping back _ why _ Lady Rhea had been furious.

Hilda straightened and the shift in her presence pulled the man's attention back towards her. "Well it's the truth, so I would appreciate you putting a little more weight behind my word."

"...of course." The man inclined his head. "The boy must be one of the ones we captured at the Locket then, I presume? Unbelievable isn't it, that the Almyrans would have children running with them in their armies. It's barbaric."

Cyril could taste blood in his mouth. Odd really. He had often thought the same himself. It was part of what he hated about Almyra. Yet hearing it come out of the man's mouth caused a spike of anger.

The man turned back to Cyril. "You would be willing to be the guide?"

Claude tried to push Cyril behind him. "He's not--"

Cyril shoved himself forward. "Yes. I'm willing."

"I'll stay by his side, Claude," Byleth said. "He won't be hurt."

"That's not something you can promise in a battle."

"I've done stuff like this dozens of times," Cyril said, rounding on Claude who refused to look at him. "You said you need a guide. Well I can do it. So let me do it."

The man regarded Cyril with an approving sniff. "Yes, let the boy go, Riegan. An Almyran child isn't the same as one raised in Fodlan. We should be grateful that Lady Rhea has reformed him to such an extent that he is willing to help us. Truly, it gives me hope for all those children we saved from the Almyrans."

Hilda's face paled into a bloodless white. Claude's knuckles tightened into a bloodless white.

The world gauzed itself in white. White noise in his ears, and white fire burning with anger from the pit of his stomach.

"DON'T YOU DARE COMPARE WHAT YOU DID TO ME TO MY LIFE NOW!"

The echoes still rung in his ears when Claude spoke. "Get out. Hilda's here. You're no longer necessary."

"_ Get out _?" the man said incredulously. "In Lord Holst's absence, I am the highest ranking--"

"No, Hilda was called here to act if he could not. You've said so yourself. So, leave. You've done enough obstructing for the day."

"I won't take orders from a titleless heir to be."

Claude's smile was colder than a glare. "As long as my grandfather is unfit to fulfill his duties, I am the acting duke and my will is the will of Duke Riegan."

The man grit his teeth. "I am not yours to command."

"But you are mine." The man shot Hilda a shocked stare. "You're dismissed. We will notify you of the strategy along with the other captains once we've finished here."

The man's eyes darted between Claude, Hilda, and Byleth. Anywhere but Cyril. It was the man's face that was white now, marred with splotches of angry red. Stiffly, he raised one hand to his chest and tucked one behind his back. "Then I will do as you request," he bowed and retreated.

The silence was thick enough that the sound of the door closing could be felt. Cyril twisted the cap in his hands, a trickle of shame beginning to settle in. This was a war room, and he had screamed like a child.

"Don't try to apologize," Claude said before Cyril could. "We should've dismissed him much earlier." He shook his head as he returned to the table. "You know Hilda, when I was told that Holst was the greatest general in the Alliance, I didn't think that meant he was the _ only _ capable higher officer in the entire Locket."

"Wars end, and people leave," Hilda shrugged. "The Locket used to have head officers from all over the Alliance. Now, it's almost entirely run by my family. But I hope you don't expect strategy out of me. That's what I brought the professor for."

"A wise choice, thank you."

"I haven't changed my mind," Cyril said. "I'm still going to be the guide."

Claude's smile thinned and Byleth sighed. "Yes, and I'll lead that unit," they said. Before Claude could speak up, they raised their hand to silence him. "Stay close to me, Cyril. Don't attempt to engage if we run into enemies on the way. Only fight to defend yourself. Those are my terms."

"Fine," Cyril agreed easily. He wasn't particularly keen to fight. The backroads were the ones he had used when he shuttled messages between units of the Almyran army. He only wanted to ensure that the ones that had replaced him would avoid capture.

Byleth nodded once more. "Claude. Let's continue with the rest of the plan."

Claude didn't say yes, but he continued. Cyril let out a sigh of relief.

"The Almyrans had a short skirmish with us before you arrived," Claude said. "Most likely, they've already realized that Holst is not here."

"Oh no, are we really _ that _ much worse off?" Hilda groaned.

"It was noticeable, especially when _ that _ man was giving counter orders to every one of mine." Claude's mouth set into a grim line. "We'll need to pull it together when the main force attacks."

"I'll just tell them to do whatever you and the professor agree to."

"There's actually something I need _ you _ to do, Hilda."

She quirked an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"The general of the Almyran army will most likely request a parlay."

Hilda slammed her hands on the table in excitement. "You mean they might not attack?!"

"It's not a parlay for truce," Claude snorted. "He'll ask you where Holst is. I need you to tell him that Holst has chosen not to come and that you are here in his stead."

"Why would we _ admit _ that my brother isn't here?" Hilda said. "I'm not intimidating at _ all _."

"No, but that's better isn't it? If we're headed by someone with no achievements to their name, then they'll underestimate us. Although once we successfully defend this place, you'll get quite a few achievements to your name."

Hilda groaned. "Ugh, that's even worse. I don't need infamy."

"Really?" Claude gave Hilda an odd look that Cyril could not decipher. "You can't think of a reason why you'd want some more prestige to your name?"

Whatever the look meant, Hilda clearly did understand. Her posture straightened, expression now as solemn as one that would befit a war room. "I'll do as you say."

"Good. Then let's continue."

The hour passed quickly as Byleth and Claude took turns hovering over the strategy table, moving figures and markers over the map. Cyril felt his mind spinning faster than the markers whirled into new locations. His only comfort was that Hilda looked nearly as lost. Strategies were devised, revised, trashed, and revived within minutes. They couldn't afford to be slow when the attack was impending. At last, they settled on a plan. Not perfect, Claude sighed, but they could not delay communicating them to the unit captains any longer.

Hilda and Byleth left to gather them, leaving Claude to look over the plan alone.

His gaze fixed itself on the marker for Byleth's unit. "Stay close to the professor, Cyril."

"You're the third person to tell me that," Cyril said flatly.

"Because it's what you should do."

"You're the one who kept singing the professor's praises to me when you were asking me to join the class. They've got themselves a name like _ the Ashen Demon _." Cyril waved his hands for emphasis. "I'll be fine."

"People tack on _ demon _ too easily. They're still human."

"I don't know," Cyril said. "The professor might be human, but the soldiers used to tell us lots of stories about the Demon of the Throat." He suppressed a shiver, determined not to quake as he had as a nine year old. "They said that they once shot an arrow that flew out one man and hit the one behind him. And that another time they had skewered three heads with one strike of their sword." 

_ Like a kebab _, the soldier had told them before ripping a piece of meat off the stick in his hand. The children gathered around screamed loudly at the soldier's wild expression framed by the firepit's light. In retrospect, the soldier had probably only said that to make them lose their appetites.

Claude laughed softly. "My mother certainly did all that, but I assure you, she's human too."

Cyril almost fell from his seat. "That's your _ mother _?"

He let out a louder peal of laughter at Cyril's expression. "In her defense, she doesn't make a hobby of skewering heads. It was once, and only because they cornered her in a narrow corridor. Normally she's--" Claude's head bobbed back and forth. "Well, she's not _ sweet _, but she's kind enough in her own way."

"...is she really over two meters tall?"

"No. She barely comes up to my ear." A dramatic sigh. "I wish that rumor were true, but alas: height will not be gifted to me."

Try as he might, Cyril could not stop gawking. It was difficult to reconcile the shadowy demon used to frighten them during training something that was flesh and blood. That there were those who knew them as such.

"That's the funny thing about war," Claude said lightly. "It makes us all someone's monster."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire paralogue was originally going to be one chapter in the rough outline I had for the fic. Well. Sometimes things change.


	24. Dividing the World (Rain)

His father had always loved being the one to take the herd out, and Cyril had always loved to go with him. His mother had made a saddle that could snugly fit the two of them so that even when his father made sudden dips in the air just for the thrill of it, Cyril could enjoy his stomach fluttering without falling from the wyvern's back.

They would fly over the plains, so fast and high that the long grass running below them turned into a smooth sea. The ponds and lakes like mirrors among their rippling waves. Sometimes they would edge over to the mountains of Fodlan's Throat. Not too often--it was risky business going close to the border when the war with Fodlan had yet to be settled, but the mountains were where the wyverns belonged. All the plains in the world couldn't satisfy their instinctive need for its misty air and echoing cliffs.

It was the same for the people of Khidr, his father had told him. The mountains belonged to dragons, wyverns, and the people who learned to fly alongside them. To the people who had learned to read the wind. 

The province's namesake, Khidr, had been the first. He had felt the subtle shifts in the air, the fluctuations in warmth and cold, the varying scents they carried, and let it take him where no one dared wander. He had traveled across the cursed lands, over the mountains, until at last he had reached the land of the verdant wind. Since that time over a thousand years ago, the people of the province had always let the wind guide them. In the skies, over the lands, and even across the seas.

But his father liked to claim that it was the ones who lived alongside wyverns that stayed truest to those roots. Almost every Khidran could ride a wyvern, but only a few chose to tie their lives to them like his family had done. Even when he hadn't been allowed on a wyvern alone, his mother and father had taken care to teach him how to feel the beat of each wing and the flow of the air that lifted them. He supposed in his own way, he was also raised in a saddle.

Perhaps that was why he had taken to running the backroads in the mountains as well as he had. It had only seemed natural to him which paths to take even when the terrain was unfamiliar. 

Apprentices were meant to stay behind at war camps, earning their keep by repairing weapons or maintaining the camp. It was only when the one who apprenticed them felt they were ready that they would be promoted to the lowest ranks and be allowed to step onto the battlefield as a weapons carrier or message runner. _ Ready _ usually didn't happen until the apprentice was fifteen regardless of when they entered the army.

But exceptions were always made when necessary, and sending in children only ten or eleven was the first concession made during a shortage. Cyril had been an easy choice.

And now he was guiding the other side.

He walked at the front of the one hundred soldiers, each of them grunting and clinking in their armor as they tried to balance themselves on the rocky terrain without falling on their own swords. Claude had expressed doubts that soldiers accustomed to defending a fortress would be able to quietly traverse the backroads. They had only taken with them light armored forces, but even so, only the professor, the mercenaries they had brought with them, and Cyril were walking with relative silence. 

Cyril had been planning to avoid the roads he thought Almyran messengers would be more likely to take anyways. If they ran into one, there wasn't much Cyril could do if they decided to kill the runner. It was better to decrease the chances of contact outright. But now, listening to the soldiers fail to remain quiet, it was a greater concern that they would be discovered and the plan ruined. He could only hope that the majority of the Almyran forces were already gathered near the Locket.

"How much further?" Byleth asked.

"Not too long now. We passed the halfway point three turns ago."

Byleth glanced back to the eastern horizon where the sun had half risen from its slumber. Claude had predicted that the Almyrans would attack when they had the sun at their backs to take advantage of the light's glare. Cyril watched Byleth take a quick angle of the sun with their hands. "We'll make it a little after the battle starts then," they said.

They continued to walk without speaking. Each thud of feet sounded impossibly loud to Cyril's ears. Cyril grit his teeth. Either he had chosen the right paths and the lack of Almyrans meant that he had avoided them, or they were lying in wait to ambush.

Suddenly, a loud horn sounded in the distance, tone constrained until its bellow expanded outward to echo among the mountainside. Byleth turned quickly to take another glance at the sun. "Looks like they're starting a little early," they said, calm despite the ripple of panic spreading among the soldiers.

"Oi, is there a faster path you can take us on?" one of the soldiers asked, pushing his way past the professor.

"We keep our current path," Byleth said before Cyril could answer. "The last thing we need is to lose soldiers by having them tumble off a cliff."

"The battle's already reached the Locket!"

"They'll be able to hold positions until we arrive. Cyril, keep going."

Cyril nodded, but hastened his pace. The noise they made was impossible to ignore now, but if the Locket was already under attack, then the majority of the forces would be concentrated at the walls.

It wasn't long until they could hear the muffled sounds of metal meeting metal and overlapping battle cries. The thud of his pulse pounded in his ears along with the steady clangs of swords and axes. They were almost there--

A cracking sound drew the focus of all the soldiers.

A yelp. A shape skidding from the hill accompanied by dirt and pebbles.

A girl scrambling backwards towards the hill she had slid down before she had even come to a proper stop.

An Almyran girl. Simple green tunic with only the lightest of leather armor. Tightly tied boots laced up to mid shin. A message runner's uniform. Perhaps she was older, perhaps she was younger.

The soldiers reacted before Cyril.

The one nearest to her drew his sword, the delay in the strike giving her just enough time to leap back up to a stone in the rockwall before he completed the swing. The sword clanged against stone, dust flying out. The soldier flinched from the rubble, and the girl kicked at the dirt to shower more on the soldiers gathered at her feet.

She turned, desperately clawing at the rockwall for purchase to launch her back to higher ground. But the crumbling earth had been why she had fallen in the first place. It had been her weapon, and as it gave way against under her hands, her undoing.

She fell, landing on her back. A sword swung downwards, and she rolled. The blade clipped at her hair.

Cyril wasn't thinking at all, but suddenly, he found himself next to the girl. Dimly he heard Byleth shouting his name, but it seemed unimportant. Another sword was swinging, the girl was right in its path, and all Cyril could focus on was the arm wielding the sword. He reached up to grab--

The soldier let out a shout of pain as he jolted backwards, arrow lodged in his shoulder. 

Cyril followed the path of the arrow up the rockwall to see an Almyran soldier half sprinting down the hill, another arrow already drawn in her hands.

"_ Get up here! _" she shouted in Almyran.

Without thinking, Cyril started to reach for the rockwall, but the girl reached it first. He jolted back. 

How long had it been since he had heard Almyran? Long enough that the sound of him dazed him and sent him reeling back in time. 

"An ambush!" one of the Fodlani soldiers cried.

"N-no, it's not!" Cyril shouted, voice unheard over the din rising among the company. Both of them were too lightly armored to be part of the main force. A pair of message runners most likely.

The girl had successfully scrambled up the rockwall this time, the soldiers nearby having stepped backwards to group together from the cry of _ ambush _. Their eyes darted left and right, searching out movements among the stone.

One of the mercenaries lifted their own bow and fired at the Almyran soldier.

The Almyran soldier dodged left, barely avoiding the arrow's strike, and in the same breath loosed her own arrow at the mercenary. The violent movement veered it right, but with the Fodlan soldiers packed tightly together, it still struck the arm of another nearby.

By the time she had stopped moving, another arrow was nocked in her bow. "_ Run! _"

The girl sprinted up the hill with all the speed she could muster. _ Yes _ , Cyril thought. _ Run. Run. Run. _

The mercenaries had split into two groups, each scaling opposite sides of the rockwall. The Almyran soldier fired her arrow at one side, but the mercenary was quick to duck back down to the cover of the cliff. The second group was beginning to reach the top of the rockwall.

"_ I said run! _" she shouted again as she nocked another arrow.

The girl was already running.

"_ Damn it, what are you doing?! _"

The mercenaries would close in soon. What _ was _ the soldier doing? She should be running herself.

But the Almyran soldier's gaze didn't fall on the mercenaries. The full force of it was fixed on Cyril. "_ Run! _"

The shout pierced him like an arrow. He staggered back. He shook his head. She scowled, taking another step closer as if she meant to drag him up the rockwall herself. "_ Don't be afraid! I'll cover you!" _

An arrow glanced her leg, but still she did not move. She shot back into the crowd of soldiers. _ "Hurry and get up here--" _

"_ I'm in the Fodlan army! _"

The words tasted stale on his tongue, like something familiar that had become something undesirable as it aged. The feel of sounds rolling over his tongue from deep in the back of his throat, echoes of motions that had once been part of his everyday, but now felt more like bile rising. The unpleasant feeling of having done something forbidden. 

"I'm sorry," fell from his mouth before he could stop himself. There was no Goneril to hear it, and the Almyran soldier wouldn't understand it. Words received by no one.

The Almyran soldier gritted her teeth and tossed Cyril one last look of confusion before turning to follow the girl up the hill. The mercenaries were close behind her, but she was an experienced runner and the distance between them increased.

The Fodlani soldiers were sprinting up the path, following the mercenaries up the hill and towards the sound of battle. 

_ Run. Run. Run. _

He didn't want them to die. He had lead an army here so that they could kill each other and all he could he think was that he didn't want anyone to die. He wanted the girl who was so frightened to run all the way back home. He wanted the soldier who had tried to save him to live. He wanted every one of the soldiers who had placed their lives in his guidance to walk away and see the evening fall. 

But there were no padded arrows or wooden blades. Tens, hundreds, a number that no king or duke would remember. They would die, all for nothing that they could grasp, and he had done his own part in setting up the slaughter.

It was Almyra's fault. Almyra was attacking. He had picked a side. He was fine with this.

His hands tightened around the fabric of his tunic. He was happy to be at the monastery. He was grateful to Lady Rhea. 

"Cyril?" Byleth gripped his shoulders.

He hated Almyra for starting the war. He hated Almyra for doing nothing when his family and home were lost by its end. He hated that no one from Almyra ever came to take him from the Gonerils.

He hated that he couldn't stop the vision of a different him, surrounded by his mother and father, faces warm as they allowed him to hatch a wyvern for himself. He couldn't stop the flood of fond faces, of his aunts and uncles--all so long kept locked tight in the back of his mind.

This was the secret that he had always kept: lost love that threatened to choke him still if he let himself remember that could have been.

So he wouldn't let himself. He would lock it all back tight and far from him. Keep those familiar faces in the past and forget that perhaps, as he was being taken by the Fodlani soldiers all those years ago, he had heard someone calling his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a mess to write. But happy holidays everyone.
> 
> This was also my favorite paralogue title. So nice I used it twice.


	25. Line

"Baby sister!"

Cyril flinched from his corner of the room where he was hiding out from the rest of the fortress, and was surprised to see Hilda flinch as well. Her smile as she held out her arms was unusually poor in its ability to hide how forced it was. "Hi, brother."

Holst had the same shock of pink hair as Hilda, but was about three heads taller and looked twice as wide in his heavy armor. Cyril had seen Hilda try on the armor of a fortress knight once and it had completely dwarfed her--Holst looked like he filled it out completely. Apparently, he was completely oblivious to Hilda's forced smile and strode across the room in two short steps to lift Hilda off her feet, swinging her round and round in a joyous carousel. 

Hilda merely clung on, but her eyes had a deadened look when she caught Cyril's gaze mid rotation. Cyril was beginning to see why she had seconded his desire to leave without waiting for Holst's arrival.

The man that Cyril recognized as the second-in-command that Claude had chased off a few days prior entered after Holst with a large wrapped up parcel held gingerly in his hands.

"Oh! Hilda, you were amazing!" Holst cried, at last setting Hilda down after twenty spins. Hilda only looked mildly queasy. "You know, when Claude told me to ask you to come, I was shocked. But you were amazing! You beat the Almyran forces to such an extent that they haven't returned to attack at all!"

"Oh...I don't know if them not coming back has anything to do with how well I did," Hilda said, gaze fluttering over to Cyril for a second.

They hadn't thought much of it at the time, but it was clear once the Almyran army fully retreated back over the border. It was surprisingly obvious in retrospect. Fighting a battle without the famed Alliance general must've seemed like an offering to pay the blood debt. It was too perfect. Hilda had pulled Claude aside, but the house leader merely laughed and said that he was only taking advantage of the poor hand they had been dealt.

"So, what happened to you exactly?" Hilda asked.

Holst's face lit up all too happily for someone who should've been recalling the illness that had confined him to bed for the past three days. "It's wonderfully sweet of you to worry after me, Hilda. I had eaten some bad mushrooms is all. You know how I love the ones that grow near our home. It must've been two days after I returned from the Roundtable. I always want to eat a good meal before leaving for the Locket, so I asked the cooks to prepare them for me before I left to meet Claude here. Unfortunately, they must've gotten a bad one mixed in there. But there's no need to worry! I'm right as rain now."

Hilda sighed and shook her head. "That sounds way too much like you. Well, now that you're here, I guess we can head back to the monastery--"

"That's much too soon!" Holst cried. "We must at least have dinner together! And there's much to talk about. I have wondrous news for you!"

"Yeah…?"

"Yes!" Holst motioned for the man to come over and took the parcel from him. "For you! I know you enjoy presents, so I wrapped it for you. Look, I even put a ribbon on it."

"Oh!" Despite herself, Hilda's face lit up. "Well, it's not my birthday or anything. Hmm, let's see...oh, it's heavy…" She pulled off the ribbon, gave its satin shine a hum of approval, and tucked it into her skirt before pulling the pink paper aside.

Hilda had barely removed the tip of the parcel before stopping, face blanching. Cyril craned his neck to get a better look. He could just barely make out something that looked like bone peeking out from behind the paper. The bone-like thing wiggled and Cyril scuttled back, certain that his face was mirroring Hilda's.

"Is this..._ Freikugel _?" Hilda said in a horrified whisper. He could see the second in command stiffening.

"Yes! I spoke to father before coming here and I managed to get him to agree to pass it along to you!"

"But this is supposed to be wielded by the head of the house!"

"Yes, and after the genius you displayed in battle, I think you should inherit--"

"Stop right there!" Hilda hissed. "You are _ not _ foisting your entire inheritance on me just so you can be free to run off and go see Morfis or Almyra or wherever else has caught your fancy!"

"Lady Hilda! To suggest such a thing!" the second in command cried, scandalized.

Holst gave a nervous giggle. "O-of course not. I'd never _ dream _ of that."

"I find it hard to believe that father would be fine with you passing everything to me after just one battle."

"Well...he didn't. I was only saying that I thought he should."

"Clearly, I won't. So here." She shoved the parcel into Holst's arms. "Take this back."

"Oh, no. This, father _ did _ agree to give you, independent of the inheritance," Holst said, shoving it back into Hilda's arms. "You have the Crest of Goneril as well. You'll be able to wield it to its full potential, just as I have. Father was extremely impressed by your actions."

"G-general Holst!" the second in command said, running over now that the shock had worn off. "Freikugel is meant to protect our borders. You can't really mean to give it to Lady Hilda when she isn't to remain at the Locket."

"The Almyrans rarely attack these days," Holst said with a wave of his hands. "Why, I do believe this skirmish was the first in over two years and they were quick enough to end it."

"But the skirmish still _ happened _."

"And Freikugel was not needed," Holst shrugged. Then, with a serious look of concern, "Really, I do believe you'll need it more than I have Hilda! It's sent shivers down my spine reading your letters about your monthly missions! Absolutely ghastly. I don't know what is happening in Fodlan this year that your missions involve matters of such magnitude. Why, when I was at the officer's academy, we were mostly responsible for helping the knights ward off bandits from villages or accompanying merchants when they had to travel risky roads."

"It's been quite a year," Hilda admitted. She turned Freikugel in her hands, hesitantly unwrapping more of it.

"Exactly! And if we ever have need of it at the border, I'll know I can call upon you, Hilda!"

Hilda opened her mouth as if to protest, but shut it without saying a word. "...yeah. You can call on me if another Goneril is needed."

Holst's mouth also opened, but it stayed opened through his misty eyed awe. "Hilda! To think I'd hear such words from you!"

"Do _ not _ take this as a sign that you can shove your responsibilities on me," Hilda said with a glare. "I have no intentions of going as far as becoming the head of the house!"

"I-I'd never _ dream _ of that," Holst said, voice squeaking high. "Although if you _ ever _ did have interest, with the genius you displayed this time it wouldn't be hard to convince father--"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but Claude and my professor came up with all of the tactics."

"There's no need to be modest! I plan to thank both of them. I believe I saw your professor coming in, but where is Claude?" Holst turned about the room as if Claude would pop out of the corner if he looked hard enough.

Instead, his gaze fell on Cyril.

"Oh! Who's this?"

"That's Cyril," Hilda said, following after Holst. "I think I mentioned him in my letters before? He's a classmate."

"My, I do believe I remember you writing of an Almyran who lived at the monastery," Holst said, striding over. Cyril resisted the urge to step back. Holst stuck out a hand. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

"S-sure," Cyril managed to stutter. His hand twitched at his side, but he brought it up to grasp Holst's. Immediately, it was wrapped in a strong grip as Holst gave it a firm shake.

"Did you come all this way to help Hilda at the Locket?"

"Oh, Cyril was a huge help! He was the one who brought one of our companies around the other side of the Locket for a pincer attack!"

"Well now, you should look a little prouder of that, I'd say," Holst said, shaking Cyril's hand even more vigorously.

Cyril bit the inside of his mouth. There wasn't anything particularly unpleasant about Holst's words. It was just that Cyril could feel his skin crawl remembering how Holst had stood by as he was dumped into a carriage with the other Almyran children and taken to a Goneril house nearby. Yet, Holst's eyes were devoid of even the lightest shimmer of recognition. He pulled his hand out from Holst's. "I-I gotta go."

"Oh? What--"

"Hey, I'm really kind of hungry," Hilda said loudly, forcing Holst's attention back to her. "You know I brought some rose petal blend so why don't you come have afternoon tea with me?"

"That sounds lovely! Just allow me--"

Cyril took the opportunity to rush from the room. The hallways felt too stuffy, so he left the interior of the fortress. But even out in the courtyard, the walls felt like they were pressing against him, so before he realized what he was doing, he had left the fortress entirely for the mountains that surrounded it.

Just a few minutes of walking and the stale air filled with the scent of sweat and bodies was replaced by the crisp scent of the mountains and pine-needles. He breathed deep, enjoying even the slight sharpness that accompanied the chilled air into his lungs.

He had never been on the Goneril side of Fodlan's Throat, or at least not on his own and definitely not with the mountains spread before him, free for him to explore. But the Locket was visible enough that he did not need to fear getting lost, so he saw no reason not to wander off.

It wasn't as different from the Almyran side as he expected. If not for the differing angle of the Locket, he would've thought he were still on the Almyran side.

Cyril walked along, feeling lighter by the step. Time blurred, and the Locket shrank behind him. The wind rose from the west with a funny little hum and Cyril hummed along with it as he turned to follow it to its source.

As expected, the source was a shallow cave tucked away between lines of pine groves. It was barely deep enough to fit two people and even without entering, he could see its back. What he didn't expect was to find Claude sitting in the middle of it, fiddling with some moss covered lump coming out of the ground.

"Hey Cyril," Claude said without looking up.

Cyril ducked into the cave and took the empty spot opposite of Claude. The cave was surprisingly warm compared to the outside despite the lack of covering over its entrance.

"What are you doing out here?" Cyril asked.

Claude continued to pick at the moss and vines. Whatever they were attached to seemed to be stone underneath. "Same as you, I'd expect. Got tired of the Locket and wanted to get out for a bit. Then I found this place! Must've been used by travelers when they needed a place to rest overnight back in the day."

"Holst came."

"All recovered from whatever he had I expect."

"Yeah, he's alright." A pause. "He gave Hilda the family relic weapon. Frei...ka...something."

"Freikugel?" That was enough to make Claude look up in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah, he was real impressed with Hilda."

"After just _ one _ battle?" Claude snorted. "Damn, that family is something."

So. What surprised him was how soon it occurred, not that it did. "Hilda got renown, and the Almyrans think the blood debt got paid. You made things work things work out pretty well."

The relaxed smile on Claude's face stiffened. "I wonder…"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, there's two ways to settle a blood debt," Claude said, still picking at the moss. "We could've offered up Holst's head."

Cyril narrowed his eyes. "...they would've never agreed to that."

"No, they wouldn't. That's why there was a battle at the Locket instead. Soldiers' lives for his." Claude's fingers drummed absently on the moss. "Perhaps we could've ended it with only one life lost. Or, perhaps killing him would've just sparked a larger war. Either way, the ones who pay first price are the soldiers, and the nobles who decide it all keep their lives."

"Well, you're one of the nobles who get to decide," Cyril said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. "So I hope you're not looking for pity from me."

Claude let out a laugh. "Of course not. I'm not looking for praise either, is all." 

Cyril watched him continue to pull at the plant growth. The stone's shape was beginning to become clear, and from it's smoothed surfaces and unnatural curves, it was man-made. 

"So. How are you?" Claude asked. "It wasn't easy for you to face the Almyrans."

"...I was fine," Cyril said stiffly.

"That's not how Teach described it. Ran into an Almyran soldier, didn't you? Did they say something to you?"

Cyril drew his knees closer to his chin. "It wasn't anything important. What about you? You were actually killing them."

"Wouldn't be my first time," Claude shrugged with perhaps too much nonchalance. "I was in the Kamangi army before, remember? There were plenty of bandits or the odd clan trying to take over a city or whatnot. Got sent out to deal with that a lot."

"Then it's the same for me. Khidran armies dealt with clan disputes too."

"But it's different when you're facing an army you were a part of in the past."

"I said I was fine!" Cyril snapped. "Don't talk like you're not the one who just came over! Like you're not the one that misses Khidr, or Kamangir, or wherever it is that you've been! I'm not like you. I picked Fodlan years ago. I don't care about Almyra!"

"And yet here you are, because you were worried about Almyrans," Claude said, completely unshaken. "Cyril, you don't have to be fine."

If not for the low ceiling of the cave, he would've stood so that he could tower over Claude to make his point. Instead, he uncurled and drew himself up as much as he could. "I told you, I'm fine! Almyra started the war! Almyra keeps attacking for no reason!" He let out a shout of frustration. "Why can't they just leave Fodlan alone? Why can't they just stay in Almyra so I don't have to keep making up for what they do?!"

Claude frowned. "How long were you at the Goneril's?"

"That's got nothing to do with this."

"It has plenty to do with it." Claude pulled off a particularly large patch of vines with perhaps more vigor than necessary. The stone was almost completely bare now, and it's shape exposed: a large bowl surrounded by a secondary ring at its base. 

"What is that?" Cyril said. It was a question, yet it wasn't. He already knew what Claude's answer would be.

"An old fire vessel," Claude said. "Travelers must've used it to pray when they rested for the night."

"But we're in Goneril territory."

"And yet, this is it. The land of the verdant wind."

"But this is Goneril territory," Cyril repeated blankly. "This is Alliance territory."

Claude gave Cyril an inquisitive look. "Khidr crossed mountains. The Throat is the only mountain range in the province. Where else could the land of the verdant wind be if not in Fodlan?"

Cyril's mouth felt dry. He wanted Claude to stop expecting an answer when all he could think of was _ I don't know _.

Mercifully, Claude continued to do the talking, even if his gaze remained uncomfortably fixed on Cyril. "The name for the Throat has the same meaning in both Fodlani and Almyran. It has the same meaning even in middle Khidran. It was the throat that would pass the bounty the mouth contained to the body on the other side. Only now, the throat is choked...by _ that _." Cyril didn't have to look in the direction where Claude had nodded to know that he was referring to the Locket. 

Instead, he forced himself to hold Claude's gaze. It was the one that he hated the most. It was the way that Cyril had caught him looking time and time again when they had first met. His eyes two pans of a scale, carefully weighing the Cyril reflected in them. 

Cyril licked his lips to part them. "What?"

"How much do you remember about the King Arash myths?"

Cyril blinked. "...enough I guess? I watched the Founding Festival plays about him a lot. People were invading Almyra and he shot an arrow to ward them off, right? And then he disappeared."

A pause. "The Founding plays mainly covered one portion of the myth," Claude said. "Do you want to hear the rest?"

Cyril shrugged, confused. Claude counted that as good as yes.

His voice rumbled low and the words flowed out in a smooth torrent. A storyteller's words; the child stream diverted from the river that had repeated them first. "A long time ago, humans from the west grew too proud of their accomplishments. They believed themselves masters of this earth, and that it was theirs to shape as they saw fit. They waged war carelessly and finally, they rained their wrath on the earth. The destruction plunged the world into the Long Night. The lands were cursed, the sun was blotted from the sky, and winter fell in the summer months. Nothing would grow in the cursed earth, and all that lived upon it would die, bodies falling apart to the illness that the curse imparted on them. Civilizations fell, and their fragments were forced to become nomads that wandered the wastelands."

"The years passed, the fragments dwindled. The continent was divided in two by the stretch of land cursed so heavily that no one dared pass. The western side of the divide was further split in half by mountains. Between the mountains and cursed land, the fragments that remained belonged only to five tribes. And then one day, the verdant wind called for a man from across the mountains. His family begged him to stay. Weakened as they were, barely eeking out life from the purest patches of earth they could keep in their hands, they doubted that he could survive in the mountains where the cold could freeze him in one night."

"...isn't this the Khidr myth?" Cyril interjected hesitantly.

"It is," Claude said with a small smile. "I'm glad you can recognize it."

Claude continued. "Khidr made his way across the mountains. He was shocked to find the air becoming purer and purer as he approached the western side of the mountains. When he finally finished his descent, he saw a scene that he had only heard of in legends. Green grass, pure water, and calm beasts untouched by the curse. He wandered among the beauty, each sight more wondrous than the last. On his third day, he stumbled upon a village. To his surprise, there was a woman there who could understand him."

"The woman told him that a goddess was purifying the earth and lifting the curse. From the Long Night until then, the goddess had been doing so tirelessly, until at last, a few decades prior, her purification had reached the land where they now stood. Overjoyed, Khidr returned home. He told all those he passed of his discovery, and soon, he was guiding others across the mountains. The ones who believed him first were those of his tribe, but as time passed, even those from the other four tribes sought his aid. For those too weak to cross on foot, his tribe tamed the wyverns that made their homes in the mountains."

"As the decades passed, it was as the village woman had told him--the goddess' purification was spreading. It crossed the mountains, sweeping across the deadened earth of his childhood until prairie grasses sprouted up like waves. Many who crossed returned east, hoping that if they followed the spread of purification, they could begin to make their way back to the lands that their tribes had built civilizations upon in distant memory."

"But those of Khidr's tribe had always lived near the mountains, so they remained in the land of the verdant wind and in the mountains that divided them from the prairies. Khidr himself remained in the mountains, spending his last days watching as the wyverns bearing humans and goods crossed the skies. At ease, knowing that the verdant wind blew on both sides of the mountain."

Claude patted the stone vessel between them. "_ This _is likely something from that time."

"After Khidr passed, his tribe renamed themselves in his honor. Then, one day, the purification stopped spreading. Exhausted by her efforts, the goddess had fallen into a deep slumber. The people were calm. When the goddess awakened, she would continue, and until then, they would live on the land she had purified. For a time, all was well."

"And then, a man appeared. He declared that the people were living a lie. The goddess had only purified the land for those that followed her--for her children, for _ her _ creations. She had only purified it for the people of Fodlan. Those who had come to claim a place for themselves from beyond it were merely parasites stealing the goodwill of the goddess. He was the one blessed by the goddess to come free the land of their presence. "

Cyril felt a chill down his spine. The words were familiar, but he knew it wasn't from his memories of Almyra.

"The man and his followers slaughtered those that did not worship the goddess. If they begged to convert, he declared that they were not her creations and unworthy of following her. The magic and weapons the man and his followers wielded were beyond comprehension. Soon, the five tribes were pushed back over the mountains, out of the prairies, and into the cursed wastelands."

"Although the strength of the curse had weakened from the purification, it would still kill them all given enough time. Yet they had nothing that could match the weapons that the man wielded. Day by day, they were pushed back and they weakened as the curse began to take hold."

At last, Claude's story began to wander into the familiar territory of the Arash myth Cyril knew. 

"The heads of the fives tribes gathered in one last effort to retake a portion of the uncursed land. Huldu of the Obodasan tribe spoke of a powerful holy woman, Sepandarmaz, worshipped by those who lived in the southern mountains. However, the path to her was so treacherous, it was impossible to find her unless she chose to descend from her home. Arash of the Keyumarsans offered to make the journey. He only requested that Huldu guide him to the mountains. Unwilling to let him scale the mountains alone, Oruc, who had lived in the Throat all his life, followed to help Arash's ascension."

"With Huldu and Oruc's guidance, Arash reached the cave where the holy woman dwelled. She refused to be involved with matters of humanity and turned Arash away. For five days and five nights, Arash begged for her aid, and at last she relented. She crafted for him a bow imbued with her power, but warned that it was not meant to be wielded by humans like him."

"Undeterred, Arash took the bow and returned north to where the five tribes were clashing with the forces of the man. The battles had decimated the forces of the five tribes. They were on the brink of defeat before Arash arrived to turn the tides. The bow he wielded was greater than any weapon that the man's forces bore, and soon, the man was the one forced to retreat."

"However, each draw of the bow was like agony to Arash. Although he had forced a retreat, doing so had taken every last drop of his will. He knew that he would only be able to draw the bow one more time."

"So, he pointed Sepandarmaz's bow at the heavens, and prayed."

It was the last prayer added to the scripture of the Almyran temples. The one that closed the plays of the founding festivals. Claude repeated it, and in his voice Cyril could hear the echoes of each storyteller who had uttered it before him.

_ Gods that watch over us from the night sky, placed there by the divine earth, or hallowed ancestors that birthed us from your blood. I offer you all that I can give--my flesh, my being, my future. Let my offering be carried in this arrow, and may you let it fall where you will. Wherever it lands, let there be a future for the five tribes. _

"The arrow flew up to the stars. The gods accepted his offering. They blessed the arrow and threw it back down to the earth as a falling star. For a moment, the horizon flashed with light like the arrival of dawn, and when it faded, the mighty fortress that the man had constructed with his magic had been destroyed."

"Just as Sepandarmaz had warned, the last arrow destroyed Arash. Not a trace of him remained. To remember that he had once existed, the Keyumars tribe was renamed Kamangir, for any calls of _ the archer _ would only refer to him."

"With the destruction of his fortress, the man fled back over the mountains. From then on, the land east of the Throat remained in the hands of the five tribes. Although no goddess ever purified the cursed land, in time, the earth did. Slowly, from the vast, once cursed land, the five tribes rose as a single nation to honor the peace that Arash had prayed for."

"...my mother wasn't particularly fond of telling me stories from Fodlan," Claude said, suddenly breaking from the storyteller's words for his own. "It wasn't until I came here that I heard what the Fodlani people called the man who had driven all those people into the wastelands." His lips curled into a disgusted sneer. "The King of Liberation."

"Nemesis...from the Seiros faith," Cyril said dully. Something was bubbling up from within him, and he dug his fingers into his arms to squeeze it out.

Claude laughed bitterly. "Imagine my surprise when I came here, and the scripture couldn't even bear to admit that the darkness the heroes drove out were just humans trying to live out their lives."

Cyril swallowed the lump in his throat, hoping that Claude would stop there, but Claude was relentless. "I've read plenty of scriptures on ancient worship of Sothis, and none of them mention her as being a Fodlan goddess. Nor did they ever refer to the people of Fodlan being her creations. The people of Duscur still worship her as part of their pantheon, yet their ancestors were also driven into the wastelands just as the ancestors of Sreng and Almyra were. So, when do you think it entered the faith?"

Cyril's teeth clattered, mouth unwilling to force out the truth he could already guess.

"It was with the founding of the Church of Seiros," Claude finished. "The idea was recorded in bard songs about Nemesis, but it was adopted into the faith once the Seiros religion became the primary form of Sothis worship. It must've been convenient. The fertile lands fell to the Adrestian Empire, and their guilt was soothed by the faith that told them it was all by the will of the goddess." His smile was sharp as he met Cyril's shuddering gaze. "Faith and tradition agreed to change as one." 

Claude was waiting for his response, and Cyril forced down the bubbling filth that threatened to spill out. He had picked a side hadn't he? Lady Rhea had accepted him, Shamir, and anyone else who came from beyond Fodlan. "That was a long time ago," Cyril said, words sounding hollow even in his own ears.

Worse than hollow, the strike of them was sharp enough to make Claude bare his teeth. For months he had never seen it, now fury was laid bare on Claude's face for the second time in the month. It was much more terrifying when it was directed at him. 

"Was it really?" Claude said hoarsely as he leaned forward, braid brushing against the fire vessel. "The southern part of the Sreng peninsula is the only part of it that isn't a desert wasteland, and it's the only part that was taken by Faerghus twelve years ago in the name of it being holy land. Duscur was taken under the guise of revenge for striking down a king chosen by the goddess. It isn't as though no king has been killed before, and yet genocide was never applied in those cases. The kingdom had been ravaged by famine and plague. Sreng had tillable soil. Duscur had precious minerals. Convenience. Even Khidr...why do you think the Alliance fought so long? They still consider the valley where Khidr meets the Throat lands of the goddess--"

"I know that!" Cyril screamed. "The Gonerils wouldn't shut up about it! So what do you want me to do Claude? To hate Fodlan? To run back to Almyra?! Well I can't!" 

He forced himself forward, glare level with Claude's cold eyes. His fingers clawed at the lip of the fire vessel, rough stone smooth under his fingers, weathered by the storm of panic escaping from him. "Nothing changes the fact that Almyra started the war that killed my parents. It doesn't change that no one there would even _ look at me _ after they died. I put myself in the army because I knew I wouldn't survive otherwise, and _ they _ chose to use me. _ They _ let the Gonerils take me. _ They _ never came to take me back!" The shriek from the last words choked his next, hoarse throat grinding them down to a whisper. 

"I already know that Fodlan hates me. Maybe…maybe I hate Fodlan." Cyril swallowed but it was too late to take back the truth. "But where else can I go?! The only people who give a shit about me are here too!"

Claude ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at his hair like he had pulled at the moss, but the motion wasn't nearly so restrained. "That wasn't--" A hiss of frustration pushed itself through his clenched teeth before he collected himself. "If you hate Almyra for how it failed you, I don't have the right to try and convince you otherwise. Hate Fodlan, hate Almyra. I didn't tell you all this to make push you one way or the other. I just...I don't want you to hate yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Cyril said all too quickly.

"Don't you?" The pitying frown made him want to curl up more than Claude's earlier fury. Want to protect more tightly the places he had carefully locked away. "You always act like you're trying to prove your place in Fodlan. Like you owe them something for being here. You're always the one to compromise and turn away. You won't even let yourself mourn before blaming yourself--"

"I don't blame myself!"

"You blame being Almyran," Claude said, frustration edging into his voice again, "as if that's a good reason for everything that happens to you. As if this hatred that exists between Almyra and Fodlan is yours to bear. I get it, I do. Sometimes all you can do is retreat and let the ones who wish it were neat and clear cut to put it all on you, but Cyril..._ don't start believing it _." Perhaps it wasn't frustration at all. Perhaps it was desperation, and once it tumbled over the edge, Claude, for once, lost his words.

He let out one long-trailing sigh, face returning to the careful controlled expression that Cyril was accustomed to. "Almyra may bear the sin of starting the war one hundred years ago," Claude said, voice soft, "but that's only one drop in this thousand year old hatred that Fodlan has allowed to exist. This hatred, this hostility--it isn't for any one person to bear. It would just drown you if you tried."

His hands gripped Cyril's shoulders. "You don't owe Fodlan anything. Not for being _ alive _."

"...I didn't want them to die," Cyril said blankly. Claude furrowed his brows, but Cyril didn't know why he was saying it either. Words tumbled out without thought. "I wanted them to escape. It would've been better for the Fodlan army if they died, but I didn't want them to. She...that Almyran soldier...she thought I was still one of theirs." His vision blurred and Claude's face jittered in a dozen fractals, multiplying by the second as Cyril's eyes grew warmer and warmer with tears. "It's no good. It's no good at all. I want to pick a side." 

A two headed snake bites both hands that try to grasp it. He had never thought of himself that way, but he was no better than one now. His laugh came out more like a sob. "I want to have a place here," Cyril said, eyes squeezing shut. 

"There is no side to pick." Claude's grip tightened. "We're not at war with Almyra, Cyril. There won't be another war."

"But what if there is?!"

"Then it will end," Claude said firmly. "And once it does, people like you will be the ones who are needed the most. I think...being unable to draw a clear line is a good thing. It means you never forget that the ones you fight today may not always be your enemy. That they are still human. I'd much rather you remember that, than for you to pick a side and follow it without another thought."

Cyril hung his head, silent. If he let himself, he could believe Claude's words. He wanted to believe. 

Slowly, Claude drew back to his side of the cave. "Do you want to pray for them?"

"...yes," Cyril said quietly.

Claude threw a few dried twigs into the stone vessel and lit the fire. The warm light bubbled around them, a patch of brightness in the dimming day. Perhaps the goddess had already taken up the Fodlani soldier's souls and his prayers were unwanted. Perhaps the borders meant little to the gods and the feasts in Almyra had already sent the Almyran soldiers off. Even so, Cyril prayed for their safe journey, and as he did, he watched Claude do the same. He wondered: was the _ them _ that Claude thought of the same as his? 

"...do you hate Fodlan?" Cyril asked after the fire flickered out.

The question came from the blue, and in the brief moment of surprise, Claude was honest. His green eyes flashed with something more like a winter howl than a summer balm. But, it passed, and Claude smiled. "I believe that it can change."

Unspoken, Cyril could hear _ or I'll force it to _.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of two pieces of this fic that I'd consider larger departures from pure canon. It's not impossible, but it is very much all conjecture.


	26. Blur

"I am relieved to see that you have all returned safely," Lady Rhea said, her smile as soft as her eyes as she gave them a look over. Her gaze lingered the longest on Byleth. Cyril kicked down the prickle of jealousy. The professor had been instrumental to Lady Rhea the past year. It was only natural that they would have her favor. "I feared another war on the horizon, but by the grace of the goddess, it all seems to have passed. Still, we must stay alert. Give your brother my regards and prayers, Hilda." 

That pricked in a different way. Cyril's hand twitched at his side.

"Of course, Lady Rhea," Hilda said, voice stiff as a freshly pressed collar. Her bow was like her body was wrapped in the stuff--angled, jerky, and slow to rise.

"Oh, I doubt the Almyrans will attack again unless Fodlan attacks first," Claude said.

Hilda's slow straightening stopped entirely, body reaching a new level of stiffness at Claude's nonchalant interjection. Byleth's head swiveled to stare at him, the most subtle of creases between their brows. Cyril looked too, but he had almost expected this of Claude.

The focus of all the attention gave a languid shrug, shoulders rolling with the ease of a cat stretching in the sunshine. "After all, that was why the Almyrans attacked this time."

Lady Rhea's gentle smile curved at the corners, more sharp than friendly even though it had grown wider. Her chin was tilted up just so that her eyes were turned downward at Claude, focus narrowed from them all to him alone. It was a look so unlike her usual warmth. " _ This _ time, yes. But it is difficult to forget the invasion from one hundred years ago. It is the duty of those in Fodlan to care for the land given to them by the goddess, and the invasion then was the closest this land has come to being overtaken."

"The king who ordered it is dead now, I'm certain," Claude said, his own sharp, wide smile on his face. "Rulers from outside of Fodlan don't tend to be so long lived as some of those here."

"The goddess blesses those fit for power so that they may prolong their duties as stewards of her beloved creations." Her head dipped briefly. A half prayer of praise. "I am certain that you will be blessed with a long life as well."

His smile deepened, eyes narrowing. "Not as long as yours."

"Perhaps not," Lady Rhea replied, face mirroring Claude's. "I suppose it must seem odd to you, coming from outside of Fodlan, but the Elite Riegan of your own family lived for over two hundred years."

"And yet my grandfather struggles to reach one hundred," Claude sighed. "You must truly have the utmost blessing of the goddess to have a lifespan like that of the Elites themselves."

"And it is a wonderful blessing, Lady Rhea!" Hilda interjected loudly. Her bow had transformed into a mincing stoop, her two fists raised to frame her face in a nervous parody of her usual coy motions. "We are ever grateful for your guidance."

Lady Rhea didn't spare Hilda a glance. "You know, for some time, I was worried about you, Claude."

Claude swatted his hands as if to wave away her concern. "No need to worry about me. Despite how I look, I'm quite hardy."

"Oh, I'm sure. It has always been so for one who bears the Crest of Riegan. No...I worried about how you would adjust yourself to Fodlan. I'm certain there must be things you miss from beyond the border. That must be why so many odd little things slipped through after you arrived."

A pause. Claude raised a brow. "I don't see how I could influence what foreign merchants decide to bring to the borders for trade."

"It's not about what is brought, it's about what is  _ accepted _ ." Her chin dipped, gaze leveling with Claude's. He held it as Lady Rhea continued. "I'm sure your grandfather must've wished to assuage the pain of your transition here. That must be why all these oddities have found their way into Fodlan. Like those books that have been circulating in Leicester recently. Fun little stories aren't they? And those new embroidered silks! Quite popular in the northern part of the Empire now too."

"Books and clothing are popular by nature. Is it any surprise that merchants would want to trade for them?"

"Well now, you must understand," Lady Rhea tutted with all the patience of a priest teaching rowdy children their first prayers. "We've always traded for things like seeds and uncut gems. Good, simple things that we put our efforts to grow and mold. But storybooks from other lands? Why, I had no  _ idea _ that they translated them into Fodlani. The new silks and necklaces too are quite beautiful, so much so that no artisan needs to touch them before they reach those that will wear them."

Claude drew a hand to his chin, the very picture of innocence. "Beautiful words and lovely gems will have admirers anywhere they go."

"Fodlan has its own lovely things. Our own customs and traditions. It wouldn't do to try to replace them with those from the outside."

"Of course, but a few books and necklaces are hardly enough to destroy a culture," Claude said with a rumbling laugh.

Lady Rhea gave a soft laugh in return. "You see? That is why I was worried about you."

"You  _ were _ worried?" Claude's eyes narrowed. "But not anymore?"

"No, not anymore. You've picked a side now, haven't you?" 

Cyril flinched. 

"With time, I'm certain you will adjust to the customs of Fodlan," Lady Rhea continued, tone more like a demand than a statement. "After all, you bear a crest. You belong here, Claude."

Claude's face had been tightly reigned behind a smile, but an unmistakable flash of surprise flitted across his face at Lady Rhea's last words. He made a shoddy job of putting it away, and his toothy smile looked more like a grimace.

The tassels of Lady Rhea's headdress chimed as she tilted her head. "Is something the matter?" 

"Oh, it's nothing," Claude said, swallowing the last of his awkwardness. "Just not the first time I've been told that."

"Because it is the truth. I'm glad that the Leicester Alliance will be in capable hands." Lady Rhea's fluttered closed for a second and when she gazed upon them again, Cyril could feel her warmth on all of them. "And House Goneril as well. A fine job, all of you. Please, rest. And professor, I will inform you of your duties this month tomorrow."

As they turned to leave, Cyril could see Hilda shooting Claude a glare, silently mouthing words that Claude was not bothering to read at all. His attentions were off in the distance, up in the clouds.

"Wait, Cyril," Lady Rhea said. "May I speak to you?"

Cyril's heart leapt. One thundering jump that could be felt in his throat. He swallowed and his mouth felt strangely dry.

From joy. From dread. It was shifting like the lines drawn in the sand by lapping waves. The only certainty was that he was nervous. He caught Claude's narrowed gaze before turning to walk back to Lady Rhea.

"Oh, you may all leave," she said over his head. "I only wanted to speak for a little with Cyril."

Several moments later, Cyril heard a set of footsteps retreating. 

"Claude is rather concerned about you, isn't he?"

"I-is he?" Cyril stuttered, eyes fixed on his feet.

"There's no need to downplay it," Lady Rhea said. "You both came here from Almyra. It's only natural for those of similar backgrounds to find comfort in each other's presence when in an unfamiliar place."

Cyril's head snapped up, eyes wide. Lady Rhea's mouth parted in a small 'o' before flattening close into an amused smile. "I apologize, I suppose my knowledge of it comes as a surprise. Are you worried for Claude? You need not. I don't make a habit of revealing backgrounds others attempt to keep hidden."

"I-I didn't think you would," Cyril said quickly.

"Well, that wasn't what I wished to speak to you about." Her smile fell into concern. "You seem troubled, Cyril. Are you alright?"

"Of course!"

"Really?" Most times, he was happy when Lady Rhea focused her attention on him, but now the piercing gaze made him want to hide. "Are you certain? Even after you fought people from your homeland?"

His heart leapt again, and he turned away as if doing so could keep Lady Rhea from seeing the truth. 

_ You've picked a side now, haven't you? _

He hadn't. He couldn't. Even if she asked him to, even if he lied to try to keep his place in her regard, she would see his insincerity. She would think him the same as something that was to be kept out. Something that had no place here.

His heart leapt again and again, rattling at his ribcage, demanding to escape. Demanding that he escape. Better to do that than to see disgust bloom in Lady Rhea's face.

A hand touched his cheek. The push of its fingertips was feather light, but he couldn't stop them from guiding him so that he was once again face to face with Lady Rhea. He shut his eyes. "Cyril." The voice was still warm. "I know it must've been difficult. I would've never asked that of you."

He gathered his courage and peered up at Lady Rhea. There was no anger, no disgust, only a sad concern. "I...I don't know if I could do it again," Cyril said, voice catching.

"Then don't. It is enough to pray for peace at our borders." Her hand settled on his shoulder. "I'm grateful for everything you've done, but please, don't force yourself again. I could hardly believe it when Flayn told me you had gone off to the Locket."

"I thought...I thought there was something I had to do. And I thought I would be fine, but…" His eyes squeezed shut to stop the tears, but his words stopped too. He could feel Lady Rhea's hand running through his hair soothingly.

It was like the night he had left the Gonerils. The night had settled in, yet he had sat rigidly in the carriage, eyes wide and unwilling to sleep lest his escape be a dream. At times, the droning rumble of the carriage had almost lulled his eyes shut, but he would always force them back open. 

Lady Rhea had moved to sit beside him. The next time his head drooped, before he could straighten himself back up, she had pulled him down so that he lay curled up on the carriage seat. He had heard it then. A quiet lullaby being hummed just for him. A tune that made him ache from a part of him that he had forgotten how to grasp. The world faded, and he had let it, knowing that the hand cradling his head meant that it was real.

This was real too, then. His place wouldn't disappear so easily. 

Cyril wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "I-I'll be alright. Honest. It's getting late, so you should rest too, Lady Rhea!"

"Ah, wait, one more thing." She walked to a drawer at the side of the audience chamber and pulled a something from its depths before returning. "Here."

It was a black uniform trimmed with gold thread and cords. Its brassy buttons gleamed even in the dim firelight of the chamber. The threads were woven tight and even; thicker and sturdier than the thin linen of his usual shirts. 

"The annual ball will be next month," Lady Rhea said. "I thought, perhaps, this year you would want to attend."

There was plenty churning in his head, twisting his mind into painful knots. Uncertainties that had scratched away the slapshod line he had drawn for himself. Hatred and love spilled against each other. Almyra. Fodlan.

Scratched lines stacked into the walls of a maze without end, and he couldn't even know if the path he sought was towards the entrance or exit.

It was tiring.

So just for the moment, he allowed himself to savor the simple warmth that bubbled up as he clutched her gift in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude is like a friend who you had a sleepover with on Saturday and your parents forced to go with you to church the next morning even though he isn't Christian and at first it's fine, but then you look away and suddenly he's arguing about theology with the Sunday school teacher, except unbeknownst to everyone the Sunday school teacher is St. Mark himself.
> 
> This paralogue + related chapters took up like 1/4th of the fic. Oops. To be fair, Claude's story time was very long.


	27. Mirror

He had been hoping for a calm after the storm, but as with most instances when peace was desired, the tempest would only rage more fiercely. Not even three days after their return from the Throat, the Golden Deer were dispatched to Remire Village to investigate rumors of a disease that was sweeping through the area. Byleth had told him flatly that he was to stay behind, and Cyril was too tired to argue.

The return of the Golden Deer brought even more upheavals. The village had been wiped off the map--that was all the Claude would tell him. It was only with more digging that he heard the details. Buildings razed to the ground, the inhabitants slaughtered or dead from a disease that drove them into a frenzy, and Tomas was behind it all. 

Tomas who had never cared he was Almyran. Tomas who had always spoken to him cheerfully as they cleaned the library together.

He didn't want to believe it, not when the survivors of Remire stumbled about the monastery, dead in spirit if not in the grave. 

The staff seemed determined to put the focus of the students on the upcoming ball, but that only made the dull-eyed despair of the survivors more stark. A sickening clash of forced cheer from the lush boughs, richly colored draperies, and rows of candles decorating the church for upcoming festivities while those who had lost everything prayed before the goddess for deliverance. 

Evil was lurking as the goddess' eye was turned away. No amount of cheer could stop those whispers from weaving their way down the corridors and through the doorways of all who lived at Garegg Mach. 

He didn't believe in Sothis, but he could feel something vile slipping in with the winter chill. The long night approached, and all the gods in the sky would turn their gazes away soon enough. If he were still in Almyra, the night of the solstice would be spent in prayer and contemplation. A vessel lit by fire from the immortal flame would be by his side to ward off the evils that tempted humanity.

He idly wondered if that was what Claude would do on the night of the solstice. It had been years since he had partaken in the prayers, but the chill felt different this year.

Claude himself was doing a convincing job of acting as if everything was perfectly normal. It was an odd sort of feeling. Looking at him smile and laugh in the classroom almost made it seem ridiculous to be drowning in a mire of worry. It wasn't until they parted that the chill would close in again.

He didn't know how Claude found the energy for it. Cyril's days were filled to the brim, and his nights restless as the anxiety filling the monastery kicked around in his head. It was exhausting, and it was all he could do...to not…

"Ahhh! Cyril!"

Cyril jolted up. The left side of his face felt wet. He brushed his cheek and cold dirt dusted onto the greenhouse floor. Annette was already kneeling next to him, wiping at his face with a handkerchief.

"Are you ok?" she asked anxiously. "You just suddenly fell over!"

"I-I'm fine!" Cyril said, flushing as he pushed her hand away. "I must have..." Fallen asleep. The embarrassment deepened his blush.

Annette must've understood. "You were yawning a lot, but I didn't think you'd actually nod off."

"Please forget about it," Cyril mumbled.

"Aww, you don't need to be embarrassed. I completely understand! To tell you the truth, I'm half asleep whenever I'm not in classes. It's kind of why I keep messing up whenever I try to clean or...cook..." Annette trailed off, earlier smile frozen on her face. Red rose in her cheeks. "...please don't tell anyone I said that."

"Don't tell anyone I fell asleep in the middle of work and your secret's safe with me." Without another word, he took the spade from where it had clattered onto the stone and resumed weeding the angelica sprouts.

"I know I'm not one to talk," Annette started hesitantly. "But...maybe you should go back to your room and take a nap."

"Nah, the servants quarters are real loud this time of the day. If I wanted to nap, I'd go to the library."

"Uhh...okay, then maybe you should go to the library."

Cyril shook his head. "No time. I gotta head to the wyvern stables by the fourth bell. They're real needy this time of the year since they're supposed to have headed south already, but a lot of the handlers here don't know what they're doing at all for winter wyvern care."

"I thought you were meeting up with Lysithea at the library at the fourth bell."

"No, that's tomorrow." He frowned as he turned towards Annette again. "How'd you know I was meeting Lysithea?"

"Oh, we study together!" she said brightly. "She mentioned that she was tutoring you when I asked to meet today, but I must've gotten the time mixed up."

"...you didn't," Cyril said, looking away. "She said she wanted to tutor me more often, so she did ask me to go today."

_ You're making progress, but we won't have enough time if you don't set more aside! _

Lysithea had scowled and talked his ear off for a good fifteen minutes, but there was nothing that could be done. He had training at dawn with Shamir, classes in the morning and afternoon, and work for the monastery most nights. No amount of explaining had eased the frown that had twisted itself into her face, and in turn a part of his stomach refused to unravel the painful knots that had grown with the knowledge that he had made Lysithea upset.

Oblivious to all this, Annette sighed dreamily. "I'm always so nervous to ask her for more of her time...I mean she must be busy with her own research and all, but ah, I'd love to learn more from her. I bet she knows lots of interesting theories I haven't even begun to pick at!"

"You could just ask her," Cyril said. "She's real nice and she likes teaching people stuff."

"Hmm, maybe," Annette said, voice more hesitant than her words suggested . "But I'm not even in the same class like you are. You know, you should really try to take her up on more tutoring if she's offering."

"I'm busy," Cyril said with perhaps more force than he had intended. Then, as if to mock him, another yawn pushed its way out of his lungs. Before Annette could say a word, he turned to shoot her a flat look.

Annette put her hands in front of her. "I didn't say anything!" 

"...how do  _ you _ stay awake anyways?"

"Hmm? Oh...umm…" The blush was seeping back into her cheeks. "I...sing to myself…"

"So that's how ya got so good at it!"

"It's really not that good!"

"Everyone liked it during the feast--"

Annette let out a long, strangled cry, muffled only when she slapped her hands over her face. Her red cheeks peaked out from between her fingers. "Please, please, please don't remind me of that. I can't believe Claude made me go up there. They're just silly little songs. I don't know why he keeps making such a big deal out of them!" She pulled her face from her hands, suddenly more incredulous than shy. "The first time he heard me singing he came back the next day with an entire dissertation about the symbolism of the lyrics in relation to Faeghus underworld myths. It was just about plants.  _ Plants _ !"

Cyril couldn't suppress an amused snort. "That sounds like Claude."

"So much out of nothing!" Annette nodded furiously. "It really is just a bunch of silly nonsense. You could easily do it if you tried!"

"M-me? I dunno…" Even the thought of singing during choir practice made his cheeks feel warm.

"Yeah!" Annette said with increased vigor. "It's super easy. You just keep singing random notes and put in some words about what you're doing! Give it a try!"

"Uhhh…" If it would really help him stay awake, "...can you give an example?"

"You know, like  _ digging and pulling, go away weeds! _ " Her hands clapped along in a jaunty beat, head bobbing back and forth. " _ Grow well my angels from your little seeds-- _ " Just as abruptly as she had launched into it, Annette stopped, last note dying in her throat as she suddenly met Cyril's eyes with her own wide-eyed stare. A quiet beat passed. She let out a short cough. "...yeah, like that. Y-you do it now."

"Uhh...well…" His shoulders hunched over as if the spade clutched in his hands were a precious treasure to guard. Annette's stare exuded an intense pressure, daring him to not sing when she had let it slip in front of him. He looked away and cleared his throat. " _ Dig dig dig, I like to dig. _ " Perhaps the secret to staying awake was that the embarrassment killed his exhaustion. " _ Get those weeds far away. There's a spade in my hand...because I...I... _ I think I'm done."

"Yup, just like that," Annette said, still red faced. "Pretty good right?"

"Oh yes, I thought that was quite lovely, Cyril."

Annette stiffened at the voice, and Cyril's face overheated. "M-mercie! You heard that?!"

"Oh, sorry, forgot I had a meeting with Professor Hanneman!" Annette said. "I'll come back in a bit to clean up!" She made her retreat as quickly as she made her excuse, and Mercedes let her go without a word.

Cyril looked between Mercedes and the rapidly retreating Annette with a frown. "Are you and Annette fighting?"

"Hmm?" Mercedes blinked. She had always been somewhat distracted, but it was as though she had sunk herself deep into a daydream to keep calm during Annette's departure. "Oh, it's just a small thing. Nothing for you to worry about at all." She gave a warm smile. "I'm actually here to help retrieve some valerian root for Dedue. I could've sworn that plot was by Ashe's violets…"

"Oh! It got moved." Cyril stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. "Claude planted something poisonous next to the roots, and the sprouts ended up looking too similar. It's next to the ambrosia plot now."

"...so what's he need them for?" Cyril asked as he lead Mercedes through the greenhouse.

"It seems Dimitri's been having trouble sleeping as of late," Mercedes said, shaking her head. 

"Well, I don't blame him."

"I think everyone is a little on edge," she agreed. "Maybe I should make an extra batch of sleeping draught. Dedue hasn't been sleeping much either."

"Is it hard to brew? I--hey!" Mercedes startled at Cyril's sudden shout. He ignored her to sprint towards the ambrosia plot where a child was in the process of snipping off all the leaves from the stalks. "What do ya think you're doing?!"

The child pouted back at Cyril's glare. "I-I'm pruning them!"

"You call that pruning? You're killing it!" Cyril snatched the shears from the child's hand, eliciting a cry.

"Hey! This is my job!"

"No it's not," Cyril said flatly. " _ I'm _ the one on gardening duty."

He scrambled to his feet and barely came up to Cyril's chin. "Ask the monk! She told me to do it!"

"Probably on accident! If you can't do a job right, then don't do it!"

"It's not  _ my _ fault I'm stuck gardening!" the child huffed. He thrust a finger out towards Cyril. "This is the  _ second _ time today you've taken my job!  _ I _ was the one who was supposed to chop the wood!"

" _ Your _ job--it's been  _ my _ job to chop wood on Sundays for the past year!"

"That's 'cause I wasn't here yet! But I am now, so quit taking all the work--"

"I'm not taking anything! You're the one taking--"

"Let's calm down now." Mercedes spread her arms between them, gently nudging them apart. "I'm sure this can all be cleared up."

"Yeah it can!" the child shouted. "When this guy stops hogging all the work! My little sister can't work, so I gotta do double to make up for it!"

"But why must you work?" Mercedes asked, voice a balmy breeze against the heat of the child's seething. "You're one of the villagers from Remire, aren't you? The church isn't asking anything in return for your lodgings."

The child turned away, face still scrunched into a scowl. "For now. Bet they'll change their minds. But they can't do nothing about it if I got work here."

"Lady Rhea's the one offering you shelter, and Lady Rhea's not changing her mind," Cyril said without heat. "So if your sister's sick, just go take care of her."

The child crossed his arms and planted his feet more firmly in the ground.

"You know, ambrosia is wonderful for all kinds of illnesses." Mercedes bent over to pick up the basket full of leafy clippings and dangled it in front of the child's eyes. "There's always a few fevers going around the monastery this time of the year. That's why we always grow more during the winter. Since you've already clipped so much, you should put it to use. If you took it to the infirmary, I bet they'd make you some medicine that could make your little sister right as rain."

The child's scowl melted into hesitation as he eyed the basket. "R-really?"

"I promise," she smiled. "There's all sorts of useful things that grow in the greenhouse. You should ask the monks about it next time."

He hesitated for one more moment before taking the basket and running off.

Cyril frowned after his retreating figure. "Not even a thanks!" he huffed. "And he should have more faith in Lady Rhea! She wouldn't let anyone kick him out!"

Mercedes giggled. Cyril redirected his frown towards her. "What's so funny?"

She giggled again at his expression. "Oh, he just reminds me of a certain someone…"

"Your brother again?"

"No." The giggle on her lips spread into a wide grin. "You."

"M-me?!"

"You don't think so?" The thought of it only made her grin wider. " _ It's  _ my  _ job _ !" she said, dropping her voice several pitches in a poor imitation of a boy's. " _ I don't need your help! I gotta earn my keep or I won't be able to stay here! _ "

His cheeks burned from a different sort of embarrassment. "I-it's different!"

"Is it that different?" Mercedes' smile dampened into a pitying look. "Don't you  _ also _ believe that you won't have a place here if you stopped working?"

A thousand excuses withered and died before they even went out to fight. They died by the words he could hear himself saying to the child if he had tossed those excuses his way. 

The guilt, the fear, the need to repay.

That Lady Rhea may suffer from allowing an Almyran on monastery grounds. That he wouldn't be worth looking at if he didn't perform his duties. That this life was something owed.

"I think you should be more confident in your position," Mercedes said. "Regardless of the circumstances, there are people who want you here, aren't there?"

There were. And that was enough, wasn't it? Even if he couldn't hate Almyra as much as Fodlan wanted him to; whatever debts he owed wasn't to them.

From the blue, he remembered Seteth's questions about his future. Although he had no answer still, the space it would one day occupy was vast and empty. Daunting, but all was well. He had the time to think of how he'd like to fill it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyril singing is really cute and I'm sad it only happened once.
> 
> And so Cyril quits his church job. Or at least some of it.


	28. Place

There were still two buttons undone on the cuffs. A length of golden cord dangled awkwardly off his shoulder. The odd fan-shaped clasp refused to work as intended and fell off the base of the jacket's throat whenever he bent over to fix the cuffs of his pants.

Cyril didn't have a mirror in his room, but he was certain that this was not how the clothes that Lady Rhea had given him were supposed to fit. His hands seemed to disappear into the sleeves, and the bottoms of his trousers were already dusty from the floor. It was like the evening wear was swallowing him alive with how uncomfortably it wrapped itself around him. Although it was bracingly cold and the high quality fabric much warmer than his usual linens, he yearned for nothing more than the loose, fast fit of his day-to-day shirts. Those he could just pull over his head, tie a sash around, and be done with it. _ This _ he had spent what felt like an hour trying to finagle into place.

With a frustrated sigh, Cyril pulled the evening wear off of him and threw on his usual coat.

There wasn't much point in pride now. 

The quarters for the kitchen and stable staff were just behind the student quarters, but even in that short walk, Cyril could see various students tittering in excitement from the dance being held that evening. A real excitement, unforced by the staff.

He had meant to head to Claude's room, but to his surprise, Claude was with Lorenz out in the dormitory courtyard. The Gloucester noble had his arms held out, holding an imaginary partner in a dance, but his face was filled with an annoyance that Cyril hoped would not be present during an actual dance. Claude had draped himself lazily over a bench, head hanging over its back, completely ignoring Lorenz. Like Lorenz, he had already thrown on the school approved formal wear for the ball, but the top buttons and tucks hung open with a nonchalance that only seemed to add to Lorenz's annoyance.

"Pay attention!" Lorenz snapped. "You have but a few hours to learn the proper dances for the ball unless you plan to shame all of Leicester with your performance!"

"Gimme a break, I'll have you know I'm a fantastic dancer," Claude drawled.

"I could not care less how proficient you are at those bizarre movements you call dancing! This is not a commoner's folk dance--"

"Hey now, I know they're planning a few rounds of saltarellos--"

"Old fashioned! The popular dances of the courts these days are Adrestian waltzes or Leicestran voltas!" Lorenz shook his head and his angled bangs swished against each other. "Honestly, this is simply basic knowledge for a noble. To think you were so deficient…"

Claude rolled his eyes and rolled his head back up to face Lorenz. "Ah, another black mark against my tarnished reputation. What a fun report you'll have next. _ Father, Claude simply _ cannot _ be of noble breeding, he is unaware of the exact way we must spin in place! _"

"I would never bother my father with something so trivial!" Lorenz protested with flushing cheeks.

Claude rolled his eyes again, this time catching sight of Cyril. "Hey Cyril! Did you need something?"

Lorenz stiffened at Cyril's name, hands dropping from his invisible partner to his sides. "Cyril," Lorenz acknowledged with a nod.

"Uhh, could you help me with this?" Cyril lifted the folded evening wear in his hands. 

Immediately, Claude launched himself from the bench. So fast, Cyril wondered if perhaps he was the one helping Claude. "Anything for you Cyril!"

Lorenz's attention snapped back towards Claude. "No! I have not finished instructing you!"

"Yeah, I wasn't paying attention anyways." Claude hooked at arm around Cyril shoulders and waved his other hand behind him as they walked towards the student dorms. "I'll see you tonight Lorenz!"

"You still don't get along with him, do you?" Cyril said as he glanced back at the shrinking figure of a fuming Lorenz.

"You think so?" Claude said airily. "I think things have improved greatly between us."

Cyril shot him an incredulous look. "In what way has it gotten better?"

"Well, for one, he admitted he doesn't report _ every _ one of my actions to his father anymore. At the beginning of the school year, he was more dedicated to stalking and reporting on me than the knights were when Flayn was kidnapped."

"What'd he do that for?!" Cyril cried, jaw dropping.

"His father probably asked him to do it. Anyone from Fodlan can be legitimized even if they're a bastard as long as the family wills it. The tricky part is that my father is not Fodlani. They argued for ages whether I was a legitimized Riegan, or if I was just another foreigner with the Riegans for guarantors."

Cyril froze. 

Despite the differences between the three countries of Fodlan, there was one law that kings and dukes alike seemed to carry over from the times of Adrestia even as new borders and countries were formed. The same law that kept him locked tight at the Gonerils, despite slavery being as much a sin under the Seiros faith as it was under the temples of Asha. 

He was allowed to leave; in that sense he was the same as any ordinary servant hired by a noble house. But to leave meant that the house he served was no longer his guarantor, and no outsider of Fodlan would be fool enough to try it .

A foreigner wandering about without a guarantor was the same as an enemy that had invaded. They were something that could not remain in Fodlan. Yet also something that could not be allowed to leave freely.

So they became something that needed to be killed.

The mark of the house sewn onto his clothes hadn't merely been a part of his uniform--they were what allowed him to walk about town alone without a local guard running him through with a sword.

His eyes drifted to the pennant that hung off the front of Claude's half-cape. It bore the colors of Leicester. Of House Riegan.

"Is that…"

Claude followed Cyril's gaze and shook his head. "No, in the end, House Edmund and House Goneril backed me. Along with the Riegans, that was the majority of the roundtable. The Riegans are my guarantors, but since I was recognized as a Riegan, I am effectively my own guarantor."

Cyril felt a pang of jealousy. When Lady Rhea had offered him passage through the Throat, this was the one thing that had made him consider her offer. It was only at the neutral territory in Garreg Mach that he would not require a guarantor. Anywhere else, the church would need to claim him.

He trusted Lady Rhea. He was grateful for his life at Garreg Mach. It wasn't as though she would deny him a return to Almyra if he desired it.

But...what would it be like for his life to be his own? For his place in Fodlan to be a place he carved out, rather than one granted by the church?

He hadn't thought of such a possibility until now, and yet the desire for it boiled away at him, steam rising to surface in hot bursts of anger. 

He turned away. "...I'm surprised House Goneril backed you."

Claude let out a laugh. "That's how Holst is. Kind enough man person to person, but doesn't think too deeply about what he does at the Locket."

Cyril thought of Holst shaking his hand, smiling warmly. 

Cyril thought of Holst laughing with the Locket soldiers as he was thrown into the carriage and driven off to the Gonerils. 

"Sounds about right."

"Going back to your original question, Gloucester's been trying to dig up dirt on me ever since to make the roundtable reverse their decision. Probably hoping to put Lorenz up as the next head of the Alliance. I'm sure Lorenz would love that, so he's been helping his dear old father with the problem that is my presence here."

"Shouldn't ya, I dunno, try to be more careful around him then?" Cyril said.

"Why?" A sharp grin spread itself across Claude's face. "I think it's more fun this way."

If Cyril was like the quiet blooms of baby's breath, tucked away from sight between stones and shadowed corners, then Claude was like a sunflower: garish and commanding of the open fields it towered over. So much flash that you could almost be fooled into believing he had shown you his hand.

Claude unlocked the door to his room and gestured Cyril in.

First step and Cyril almost tripped over a book that had tumbled from Claude's bed. Somehow, it was even more buried in books than it had been the previous week. There was only a tiny bit of empty space at the center, just enough room for Claude to curl up like a cat.

"Oops, sorry." Claude bent to pick up the book. "Wasn't expecting company. Alright, let's see what you've got." 

"Umm, so there's this part that hangs weirdly when I button it all up," Cyril said as he shook open the bundled doublet and pulled his arms through the sleeves. He pushed at the cuffs to free his fingers from the dangling sleeve to button it, feeling much more clumsy now that someone was watching him perform the task.

"Huh." That only made him feel even more self conscious. "How do the trousers fit?"

"They're fine if I roll them up a bit…"

Claude hmmed and began to adjust the doublet. "This cord at least is supposed to connect across to the other shoulder. See how this can clip here?" Cyril followed Claude's finger to the brass piece that he assumed was pure ornamentation and watched Claude slip the cord through its opening.

"I knew I wasn't wearing it right.."

"Well, it doesn't really _fit_ right," Claude said, adjusting Cyril's collar. "It's too big. Look, the shoulders are supposed to be here--" A hand tapped the joint where his arm met the torso. "--but the doublet's shoulders are _ here _." The hand moved to his upper arm.

"So...can you fix it?" Cyril asked.

"Me? I'm not too bad with a needle, but I've mostly done patchwork and repair." Claude's eyes looked to the ceiling as if the answers were etched on the roof. "Leonie's pretty similar...I guess the best person to ask would be Hilda?"

Cyril could feel his mouth falling open in shock. "_ Hilda _?"

"Why are you so surprised?" Claude laughed. "She enjoys her fineries."

"Wearing them, sure. It's work to make them."

Another laugh. "Too true. But even she has to fill her freed up time with something. If you'd rather not ask Hilda, I'm sure we could ask someone outside of the class..."

"I dunno if Hilda would help if we asked…"

"No, she will."

Cyril shrugged and felt the fabric of the overlarge doublet slide against his arms. Taking that as tacit agreement, Claude reopened the door to the hallway and gestured Cyril out.

Hilda's room was only a few doors down, and a chirpy voice could be heard even from behind her closed door. Claude knocked.

A few seconds passed and the door opened a crack to let Hilda poke her head out. Her usual pigtails had been traded for an elegant chignon knotted loosely at her nape. "Need something Claude?"

"Yeah, a favor--"

"Oooh, sorry," Hilda trilled, not sounding very sorry at all. "I'm busy right now. Maybe tomorrow?"

"The favor is for Cyril." Without warning, Claude stepped back and pulled Cyril in front of him. "Look! It's his first ball and you're going to let him go like this? That's cruel."

"Hey!" Cyil protested.

To his surprise, Claude's pleas seemed to have a great effect on Hilda. A long groan pushed itself from her throat, but she swung the door open to allow them through.

Compared to Claude's room, Hilda's was shockingly neat. If nothing else, Hilda's laziness didn't seem to extend into her own living quarters. The bed was covered with multiple blankets and comforters all tucked neatly in a staggered fold that showed a splash of color from each layer. A few jewelry stands lined the cabinet tops, organized by color and divided by a vase of flowers that matched the next set. Whereas Claude seemed to put all his pull into acquiring his double bed, Hilda splurged on a fine vanity set to replace the writing desk provided to the students.

Marianne sat in front of the vanity's mirror, nervous from the influx of people into the room. Her hair was down and surprisingly long. A useful curtain for her to hide behind.

"Sorry Marianne," Hilda sighed, actually sounding apologetic this time. "Guess I'm in high demand today."

"I-it's ok, I was fine with my usual braid anyhow," Marianne said. As always, her voice was breathy and low like a fragile bubble that would collapse with the lightest touch of conflict. "I'll just go back to my room--"

"Why don't I give it a try?" Claude said.

Hilda whipped around, sewing kit in hand. "_ You _?"

"Sure." Claude held up a piece of paper with a sketch of a various angles for an intricate looking updo. Several braids looped into each other into a complex crown adorned by intricate pins and chains. A large array of said pins and chains were laid out on the vanity. "I think I understand how to do it well enough."

"Y-you really don't need to," Marianne protested.

"Yeah, I wanted Marianne to look nice, not to have you pull her hair from her roots," Hilda drawled as walked back towards Cyril. "Just because you do one braid every day doesn't make you an expert."

Claude gave a dramatic gasp and pressed his hands and the paper diagram to his chest. "You both wound me with your lack of faith! Besides, it's no trouble at all, Marianne." His hands patted her shoulders, once, twice, thrice. "Hilda's helping me. It's only right that I take her place to help you. So sit back and relax!"

"Just don't tie anything too tightly so I can fix it," Hilda said. Turning her attention back to Cyril, she gave him a critical once over and instinctively, Cyril straightened. "Whoever ordered this for you got your sizing completely wrong. I mean, you'll probably grow into it in a few years, but ugh, did they not know how to do a fitting?"

"...I've never had clothes fitted for me," Cyril said flatly.

"Oh." She cleared her throat. "Ok, well first time for everything. Hands up."

He raised both hands straight over his head. Hilda blinked. "...uhh, I meant out to your sides." She pushed his arms down until they level with his shoulders. "Don't move, I'm going to start setting some pins. I'll just tuck and sew, so when you grow taller you can let them loose and it'll still fit."

Cyril held himself stiffly as Hilda shuffled around with the cloth of his doublet, carefully sliding pins along folds she made. Up went the cuffs so that their ends sat at his wrists rather than his palms. The loose material hanging off his back tightened so that the shape of the doublet became more torso than square. Even with just the temporary shape held by the needles, in the mirror, the reflection that looked back at him appeared like any other student that had been sent here by their families.

"Wow, that's actually looking pretty good," Hilda said, pausing to look at Claude and Marianne.

Cyril's focus slid from his own reflection to Marianne's. The complicated crown of hair was beginning to take shape. Despite the success, Marianne's reflection chewed her lip and held her shoulders as stiff as if she were the one having needles slid into her proximity. The Claude reflection on the other hand, preened at Hilda's compliment.

"What'd I tell you?" he said. "I've got some experience with this you know."

"No kidding. Does being a hairdresser have a place in your oh so secret past?"

"Nothing like that." Claude's fingers danced through the last of Marianne's loose hair, braiding together the delicate silver flower chain into the strands. "I used to braid my father's hair all the time. The prettier I made it, the happier he'd be."

"Your _ father _?" Hilda raised a brow. "Not your mother?"

"My _ mother _?" Claude echoed in the same tone. "She kept her hair short for most of my childhood. I think she grew it out because she got jealous though."

"Everything you tell me about your family is super weird, you know that Claude?" With one last flourish, Hilda tucked the remaining pin into the doublet. "There! Now just take it off and I'll finish sewing it in place. Oh, you'll look just like a little prince, Cyril!"

"Don't make fun of me," Cyril grumbled as he gingerly took off the needle filled doublet.

"But you will!" Hilda insisted. "Claude! You should give him that side part that's popular with the noble kids these days."

At _ side part _ Cyril drew back in horror. "Don't give me Lorenz's hair!"

Hilda scoffed. "Please, I said the one that's _ popular _. Lorenz's cut was a mistake. Like literally. He puts up a front and acts like it was on purpose, but the truth is his hairdresser snipped off too much of his bangs when his family cat jumped on them."

"Now, now, Hilda," Claude tutted. "The _ precise _ angles are emblematic of the precision that all nobles should aspire to. The pure symbolism and culture behind such a cut should not be underestimated."

There was a giggle. For a moment, they all glanced around the room, uncertain of the source until they caught sight of the blush that was dusting Marianne's cheeks. The dusting deepened into a red from the focused attention and her gaze fell to her lap.

"Ohhh, I always knew you had a cute laugh!" Hilda cooed, practically leaping to throw an arm across Marianne's shoulders, needle filled jacket forgotten. 

Forgotten but felt. Marianne winced and Hilda quickly retreated with an apology, dragging stray strands of Marianne's hair with her, forcing yet _ another _ apology. Amidst the clamor, the church bell rang five times.

"Shit, we're meeting at the 6th bell," Claude said.

Both Hilda and Claude rushed to finish their tasks. Claude finished first and Hilda pulled him into helping her hem Cyril's trousers. Marianne was then looped into combing through Cyril's hair as best she could under vague instructions to make him look like_ a little rich boy _.

It was odd to be the only one not working, Cyril thought as he saw in front of the vanity. It made him rather restless. The fact that it was Marianne only made the restlessness worse. Months later and the only Golden Deer student that had spoken to him less was Lorenz. He wasn't sure what to do except to sit quietly.

"S-sorry, I'm not sure what I'm doing," Marianne muttered.

"No, it looks fine," Cyril said automatically. Perhaps it did look fine by Fodlan standards. It was hard to tell.

Unconvinced, Marianne's lips drew themselves inward. "I'm sorry. Claude would be better at this…"

Claude's hair was more similar to his own than Marianne's would ever be. It was hardly a fair comparison. An affirmation wouldn't be accepted, but he didn't have the heart to give his usual kick of criticism to someone already so down. So, Cyril merely shrugged.

The motion startled her and the brush dropped from her hands. "I-I'm sorry, it's all dirty now." With each word, she seemed to draw herself into a tighter and tighter bundle. She scrubbed the brush against her skirt, teeth gnawing at her lip all the while. "I can't seem to do anything right…"

Cyril could not remember ever being apologized to so many times in a row. It irked him more than he thought it would. "It's fine!" he said, voice rising. "And you do plenty right. I always had an easier time with the horses if I had stable duty after you."

"Huh? Oh…" Her eyes widened and looked away. "It's nothing much."

"It's a lot. If I go after Hilda, I'm lucky if the fodder was laid out right. You're really good with them."

"It's more like they're good to me." Her voice was still quiet, but a soft warmth had replaced the brittleness. 

That was encouraging. "I used to have a hard time with the pegasi and horses. It's better now, but I still think they spook too easily."

"You just have to go slow with them. I-I think it's much more impressive how well you can handle the wyverns. All the stablemasters think highly of you."

"They do?" A grin slipped itself onto Cyril's face. "Ah well, wyverns are easy once you get to know them."

"I think they're rather terrifying myself…"

"Nah! You just gotta look them in the eye and be straightforward with them. They won't take a bite at ya if you do."

"That's exactly what's so terrifying…" Marianne muttered, gaze dropping once more.

"Why? I think it's nice. They're not like people, you know? They're just curious. Never have to be afraid of being honest with them, because they'll always be honest with you."

"That...does sound nice," she admitted. "Maybe...maybe I'll try that next time."

Outside, the bell began to ring.

Hilda let out a frustrated cry as she ripped a thread from the doublet. "This is a mess, but whatever."

"_ That's _ a mess?" Claude said. "Make me look bad, why don't you."

"Cyril, come try these on and _ please _ tell me they fit!"

Rush job it was proclaimed to be, but the stitching Hilda had added were practically invisible to his untrained eye. The extraneous fabric had been tucked and sewn into the inner portions of the doublet and the outside looked as though it had always taken the shape it now had. The cuffs closed against his wrists and the shoulder seams rested snugly against their namesakes. The bottoms of his trousers no longer dragged against the floor.

Before Cyril could say a word, Claude ran his fingers through the hair that Marianne had so painstakingly tried to brush. "There!" Claude turned Cyril back towards the mirror. 

A tailored suit and oddly well coiffed hair for something that had taken all of a minute to do. Unbidden, _ a little prince _came to mind, and Cyril winced, suddenly feeling embarrassed by his own reflection. "Th-thanks."

"Anytime. Now we better run before we're any later than our noble lineages will allow us to be."

Despite Claude's worries, they were not the last of the Golden Deer to arrive at the classroom. Flayn was, tittering all the while about how long she had to argue with Seteth to allow her to put her hair up.

"It's a shame that the ball still has such a strict code for evening wear," Flayn sighed. "I would have liked to see those lovely ball gowns I've heard so much about. This is practically another uniform, and balls are a time to wear the extravagant and uncommon, are they not?"

"I think we're getting a plenty uncommon sight," Claude said. "How many times have you seen Teach in a skirt?"

"That's true." Leonie drew a hand to her chin. "I was sure you'd go for the other evening wear, professor."

"I thought you wouldn't even change," Hilda said. "It's not like the professors have to follow the dress code. People might really mistake you for a student in that."

"Don't worry." Byleth slid a pair of glasses onto their face. "Now I look much older."

There was not a single shift in their expression, and the class' reaction was frozen along with it, uncertain of how to react. Claude was the first to crack with a snort, and Byleth's lips twitched up into a smile. Muffled laughter followed it as if it had been waiting for that moment.

"Professor, don't tell me you've been fighting half-blind this whole time!" Ignatz said in awe.

"No. The lenses are clear glass."

"Then, why…"

"My father hoped they'd make me look more authoritative."

"Such a lack of faith he had in us," Claude said with mock hurt. "As if us gentle deer would ever seek to undermine your authority in this hallowed classroom."

"Of course not. I'm sure he gave them to me in case I chose the lion's den."

Claude spread his hands out, sweeping across the people that surrounded them. "But here you are with us. Why don't we make sure you'll still be with us in five years time?"

Lysithea raised an eyebrow. "Five years?"

"Yes, five years," Claude grinned. "At the end of this year, we'll all be scattered to the wind! Who knows where we will be? So let's promise to meet back here: five years from today!"

"That would be during the Millenium Festival," Marianne said.

Ignatz nodded excitedly. "I heard that it'll be the largest celebration in the monastery's history!"

Raphael clapped his hands together. "Ha! We could pretend that the big feast is for our big reunion!"

"And it'd be way easier for us to make an excuse to get away from whatever we're doing," Hilda added.

"Oh, that's a wonderful ideal!" Flayn said, hands clasped. "It would be delightful to see everyone again. Don't you think so too, Cyril?"

"Y-yeah." 

In his daze, the answer came out more hesitantly than he intended, but it went unnoticed in the sudden wave of chatter that swept through the classroom. He felt a little unbalanced in the sea of excitement. It was too odd to think about. The end of the school year had always marked a period of peace. Something to look forward to.

  
Now, the thought of it made his heart stutter. The five year reunion appeared in the hazy uncertainty of his future as a bright beacon to seek. At the very least, at that time in his future, he knew he had a place he had made for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the actual ball next chapter! Gotta take the opportunity for some lighthearted moments while I can.
> 
> If you're wondering why the clothes Rhea gave Cyril don't fit, it's because she didn't actually measure Cyril at any point. She guessed and told the tailor Cyril's age without realizing that Cyril is in fact, much shorter than an average 14 year old.


	29. Lullaby

The ball was nothing like the feast Claude and Edelgard had organized following the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. 

That had been like a shelter of sticks hastily tied together before a storm, but the roughshod job was half the charm and the ones gathered beneath it were bound by the experience of warm rain dripping on their heads. Messy and open, where any awkwardness evaporated in the next laugh to be had.

This was a properly built mansion for nobility and all the trappings that came with it. The quartet played, but people hung at the walls of the room, uncertain of how to proceed. Cyril could feel every thread on his clothes. 

The fact that the house leaders were off to the side themselves most likely didn't help. Mercedes' sleeping droughts apparently failed to have an effect because Dimitri's eyes were still heavy with tired rings. Edelgard looked more put together, but her mood was dour all the same.

"Damn, you two are killing the mood here," Claude said flatly.

Edelgard shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Must you insist on being _ insufferable _?"

"Claude," Dimitri sighed, "I fail to see much reason to celebrate in the midst of what has passed at Remire."

"And I fail to see how you two doing nothing but worry over it helps anyone," Claude said. "It isn't either of your faults that it happened. Besides, if even you two fail to keep your morales up, what will happen to your troops?"

"You are unbelievable, you know that Claude?" Edelgard said with a shake of her head. "Perhaps you may not feel much responsibility over the matter, but it's different for me."

"Why?" He quirked an eyebrow. "Because Remire is in the Empire? Edelgard, the only ones responsible are Tomas and whoever it is he's working with."

Edelgard's lips drew into a tight frown, but she did not retort. 

"Regardless, it does not seem appropriate to celebrate," Dimitri said.

"They may not be at the academy ball, but even the refugees from Remire are celebrating the day with a feast. People will always find a reason to celebrate _ something _. It's how we keep living. So come on, I bet you can muster up a reason."

"I don't believe I can..."

"Really?" Claude rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I seem to recall Ingrid mentioning that the new crops are growing well in Galatea. I hear it's quite a harvest, actually."

"Yes, they are," Dimitri said, brightening by just a hair. "I had meant to offer you my thanks. Your suggestions have yielded remarkable results. I had no idea Almyra would have crops that could grow so well in Faerghus!"

Claude waved away the sudden onslaught of enthusiasm. "Oh, they're not Almyran crops. They're from northern Sreng, but I could only get them through Almyra since Sreng doesn't trade with Fodlan."

"That would make sense," Dimitri muttered, eyes darting to the side as he sank into his thoughts. "The climate there is similar to Faerghus'. If we could open up trade routes with them, then…"

"Yes, yes, you should absolutely trade with Sreng," Claude said impatiently. "But for now, my future Emperor--" an arm slung over Edelgard's shoulder, "and my future king," the other over Dimitri's, "you both have a much more humble task to fulfill as house leaders."

Edelgard rolled her eyes. "You will not cease your pestering otherwise, will you?"

"I will not," Claude said solemnly. "Now go forth, both of you, and give a show of unity and all that."

Edelgard rolled her eyes again, but gamely held out a hand to Dimitri. "Well then, to ending Claude's pestering."

Dimitri stared at the hand blankly until Edelgard motioned with it again, breaking his reverie. He gave a small smile. "To ending Claude's pestering."

"Wow," Claude grumbled. "That wasn't exactly the kind of unity I was asking for."

Edelgard's reply was a toss of her head before leading Dimitri to the ballroom's center. Claude took care to look hurt until the two had begun their waltz, at which point his smile flashed back on as he dipped low before Petra.

"Would you do me the honor of the first dance?" he said with enough pomp and flare to put Lorenz to shame.

Petra giggled into her hand. "You are giving me much compliment by asking, but...I do not have much familiarity with the dances of Fodlan."

"Oh don't worry, me neither. We can wing it together. Besides," his voice dropped back to the formal cadence, "with a prince and princess dancing, a lowly duke such as myself must ask a princess in order to stand beside them. Thus, your royal highness..." He dipped low again, arm giving a wide flourish that took advantage of its berth to take Petra's hand in its sweep.

Her eyes briefly widened in surprise before she gave another laugh. "Then as princess of Brigid, I will be granting your request."

Claude split a grin as he lifted his head and pulled Petra with him to the ballroom floor. Their steps were not precise and matched as Edelgard and Dimitri's, who danced each step like a sentence in a well read book. A tap of feet to the staccato of a bow on strings, a quick swing with the verve of an upbow--Claude and Petra moved like the music were pushing them along.

"What in the goddess' good name is he _ doing _ ?!" Cyril heard Lorenz cry. "That is _ not _ how an Adrestrian Waltz is supposed to look!"

But aside from Lorenz, no one seemed to care about the proper form for an Adrestian Waltz. Instead, as if some unspoken seal had been broken, students began to trip over one another to ask others to dance. People streamed to the dancefloor, and Lorenz was forced to abandon his concern in favor of procuring himself a partner.

The walls emptied of people, and Cyril suppressed his urge to squirm. The urge passed once Ashe shuffled closer.

"This is much more daunting than I expected," Ashe muttered.

"Isn't it?" Cyril agreed, shooting Ashe a grimace of commiseration.

"I've never really been to a formal ball before. A few festival dances, but those were more like the dancing we had during the feast. _ This- _-" He gestured towards the twirling pairs. "--is completely beyond me."

"The feast was way more fun." Cyril watched the measured movements, all following some invisible instructions that told precisely when to turn and bow. The uniformity only made Claude and Petra's movements all the more stark, even earning them a few glares when their improvised step cut across another's. Cyril had no desire to have that sort of scrutiny fall on him. 

"Ah! More stragglers!"

Cyril turned to see Flayn springing over, half dragging Bernadetta behind her.

"This will not do!" she tutted. "You cannot stand at the walls all evening. This is a dance!"

"Bernie has two left feet!" Bernadetta cried, trying and failing to tug away from Flayn's grasp. "Please, please, please, let me go just this once Flayn!"

"Nonsense! It is but an Adrestian Waltz, not the Heron Cup solo! This is a simple matter. Ashe! You be the lead, and Cyril, follow him."

"_ Lead _?" Ashe said, taking a step back.

"Follow...?" Cyril said, confused.

"Yes! Watch!" With surprising strength, Flayn swung Bernadetta towards her. One hand remained clasped to Bernadetta's, and the other rested loosely at Bernedatta's hip. "In position you two!"

Cyril and Ashe attempted to mirror the position. They fumbled the timing--a left hand rose to grab a dropping right, and then both attempted to change to match the other. Flayn waited patiently, and eventually, she nodded in satisfaction. Bernadetta seemed to have given into her fate, mumbling fervently under her breath.

"The patterns simply repeat," Flayn continued. "One-two-and-three, one-two-three, one-two-and-three, one-two-three…" The numbers ran like a chant and Flayn began to sway back and forth. Bernadetta limply followed. Hesitantly, Cyril and Ashe swayed along. "..and so on and so forth. Once you _ feel _ that driven to your very bones, you simply need to step in time with it, like so--"

With each count, Bernadetta and Flayn took small steps to the left, then back to the right. "Bernadetta, there's no need to stare at your feet endlessly," Flayn said, breaking the count.

"B-but I'll trip!"

"You do not trip when you walk, you will not trip now," Flayn said firmly. "Now just listen to the count, one-two-and-three, one-two-three…"

One-two-and-three. Cyril and Ashe took four mincing steps to the left.

One-two-three. Cyril and Ashe took three mincing steps back right.

"Eyes up!" Flayn instructed.

They both looked at each other at the same time. Although Cyril could not see his own expression, he had a feeling it was the same as Ashe's: wide eyed, thin lipped, and desperately holding back a chortle as they engaged in this strange four-legged stroll.

"Sorry!" Cyril heard Bernadetta shriek.

"That was my fault for not leading properly, no need to apologize. Now! Move in a circle."

One-two-and-three, round a circle's draw.

One-two-three, round the other way.

"And this is the waltz!" Flayn declared. "Away to the dancefloor!" Before Bernadetta could protest, Flayn swept them both into the crowds.

It was then that Cyril realized that the only thing more awkward than standing at the emptied walls was dancing near them. Cyril and Ashe rushed to follow Flayn onto the dance floor.

"...I still don't get this," Cyril said. "How is this dancing? Isn't this just walking? What is this supposed to do?"

"Hmmm, to build camaraderie?" Ashe suggested, tugging Cyril along in a turn he had forgotten. He squeezed Cyril's hand. "Can you feel the bonds forming?"

Cyril nodded gravely. "Yup, I feel like I'll walk lockstep with you forever. Or at least until the song ends."

"Good, then we don't have to break each other's toes," Ashe said with equal seriousness.

Suddenly, the song ended, and on cue, the pairs dropped their hands and bowed to one another. Cyril's moved to imitate them and they both took a bow. Simultaneously. 

_Bam_!

"Ow!" Cyril rubbed his forehead, face growing redder than the spot on Ashe's forehead where he had collided with Cyril.

"My, we really _ did _hurt each other once the music ended, didn't we?" Ashe said with a weak laugh. He gingerly touched the red spot and winced. "You think anyone else will still want to dance with us after seeing that?"

"Yup, let's swap."

From nowhere, Ignatz stumbled towards Ashe, pushed forward by an unseen force. The same force spun Cyril around and he found himself facing Lysithea. Her face was set with a small frown. With a gulp, Cyril placed a hand in hers. The music started again, and so did the steps.

"You already know how to waltz," she said.

"Yup, Flayn showed me." Her flat frown became a pout. "Umm...sorry it's not very good?"

Lysithea's eyes darted to her feet, the very opposite of what Flayn had said to do. "...I wanted to teach you how to waltz."

"Huh?"

"I just wanted to practice with Ignatz first!" She battled with her pout, trying to make it dignified and failing. "Didn't think someone would beat me to it."

"Uhh...you could teach me anyways?"

"No way!" Her eyes snapped back to glare into his. "You're already good enough...you learn fast as usual."

"I mean...you already teach me lots...of stuff…?"

"Aww, jealous you're losing your pupil?" Claude swept in from the left, pulling Marianne along with him.

"Shut up!" Lysithea hissed. "You could do with some lessons, you're dancing all wrong!"

Claude shrugged. "It's more fun like this, right Marianne?"

Marianne continued to cling to Claude without a word. She had her own sort of gloomy reputation around the monastery, but the stares she received were doubled by dancing with the rumor-dogged Claude. The force of it all seemed to have emptied her head of thoughts through sheer shock, and she buried her face in his shoulder in an attempt to shrink herself away from the spotlight. Cyril had a feeling she would reflect on this with embarrassment once the dance ended and Claude let her go.

Suddenly, Claude stepped away and Marianne stiffened even more at the sudden exposure. Claude lifted their held arm and spun her in place--once, twice, thrice--before sweeping an arm back around her waist and lifting her to the crescendo. Marianne gave a low shriek as her feet lost the floor, but once that faded, a small smile had settled in place of the blank shock.

"See?" Claude chirped, finally allowing them to fall into a normal waltz step. "Fun, right?"

"R-right," Marianne said, slightly breathless.

Lysithea huffed. "How childish, twirling like that."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is the move too complicated for you?"

"What?!" she bristled. "Cyril! Spin me!"

"Huh?!" Lysithea thrust their held hands up over her head and immediately began to turn. Uncertain of what to do, Cyril did his best to circle his lifted hand along with her movements, but the result wasn't nearly as smooth as Claude's attempt on Marianne.

"Keep at it," Claude laughed before sweeping away.

"Spin me again!" Lysithea demanded.

He didn't think there was much of a point given that Claude had already waltzed away, but in his humble opinion, attempting to twirl about was much more fun than walking in a circle, so he kept his mouth shut. By the end of the song, Lysithea looked dizzy but pleased by their progress. He wondered if they would dance again, but Lorenz pulled her away before he could ask, leaving him to be saved from awkwardness by Flayn once again.

There was surprisingly little time between dancing requests. He had thought he would spend more time lining the walls of the ballroom, but there were only a few rounds in which he could enjoy the spread the kitchen staff had spent the past few days preparing. Raphael had caught him at the banquet tables, and Cyril spent the next several minutes with his feet half-hanging off the ground as he experienced what it truly meant to be fully lead by someone else. Annette had waved him down afterwards, happy to find a partner close to her height. When the music had changed pace to a jauntier tune, Leonie insisted that he join a ring of Golden Deer students for a circling folk dance. When they broke off back into waltzes, he found himself dancing with Hilda of all people before being handed off to Mercedes.

Round and round. His breath grew short and his feet ached in a way he would've never anticipated when Flayn had shown him the simple steps. And still people danced, circling each other in one endless waltz.

The only way to take a chance to breath was to step away from it all. 

The moment he stepped from the ballroom into the night, the crisp air snapped at his warmed cheeks. The music faded into the distance, and suddenly it was like any other year. The ball had nothing to do with him. Just another event that created more work than it was worth. Cyril shuddered against the wind, and the music disappeared in its howl. But the chill didn't settle so deeply in his bones with the evening wear. He didn't need to brace himself. He could simply keep walking.

Other students had stepped out. He only saw a few, but he could hear pairs giggling from some hidden place he did not care to discover. 

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of white robes and green hair. He turned to see Lady Rhea sweeping through the courtyard, and down the stairs past the Goddess Tower. After the opening speech, she had left the dance. He had assumed she had returned to her room, but perhaps she was in need of something?

Lady Rhea stood at the edge of a path carved into the mountain's precipice. The mist swirled at her feet, covering the flagstones so thickly he almost thought she stood on air. The dark void of nothing stretched out before her. No matter how hard Cyril stared into it, nothing stared back.

He thought it the wind at first. A clear tone sighing through the stone crags, but then the pitch changed. Each note hummed with an unearthly purity. Even as they shackled themselves to the shape of human words, they rang as free and open as the wind.

Cyril stopped. His heart braced itself against the pull of the song. It was the same lullaby that Lady Rhea had sung to him that night he had left the Gonerils, but this time, it wasn't for him. It was tossed out to the wind, an offering to the mountains. 

The mist spun at his feet. The wind rushed in the air. The beating of wyvern wings. His father's echoing voice, singing among the crags as the wyverns turned in the sun. His body lying in the grass, eyes shut.

His eyes opened. Lady Rhea had disappeared, and the lullaby long since dissipated. Cyril shivered. The tips of his fingers felt like ice. How long had he stood there?

He turned.

And ran into a solid shape. He felt his feet slip against the stone, and his body pitch back--

"Careful." The hand gripping his arm pulled him back upright.

"Claude?" Cyril said, squinting up against the backlight. "What are you doing here?"

Claude seemed more interested in the spot where Lady Rhea had stood than answering. So at the very least, he hadn't dreamt it all.

"Were you also listening to her lullaby?" Cyril asked.

Claude's attention snapped to Cyril, appraising. "Was one of your parents from Obodas?"

"Huh?" Cyril blinked. "Where'd _ that _ come from?"

"You...you called it a lullaby," Claude said, gesturing towards the place where Lady Rhea had stood. His movements jerked awkwardly like gears that did not quite fit together. "And that's not...I mean that's how I know it too. My grandfather used to sing it for me. The tune is used as a lullaby throughout Obodas, but it's not...I mean that's not what it's _ really _…"

Cyril stared. Claude's silver tongue was failing him, each word tumbling as ungracefully as his movements. "...you think Lady Rhea was singing a random lullaby from Almyra?"

"That's exactly it!" Claude's hands clasped Cyril's shoulders. "It's _ not _ just a random lullaby! I mean, yes the tune is, but she...she didn't just use the tune! I thought I've been hearing bits and pieces of the motif during service, but I wrote it off as a coincidence. But this can't be written off! She was singing the entire damn thing!"

"_ What _ thing?"

"The Song of the Nabateans!" Claude squeezed Cyril's shoulders and at the same moment, his mouth split open into an excited grin as if it were some great revelation.

Cyril frowned. Fluttering cloth. Full veils. "The holy people of Obodas?"

"_ Yes! _ Them!"

"You gotta be hearing wrong," Cyril said, shrugging off Claude's grip. "The holy people barely even leave Raqmu."

"I'm not hearing wrong," Claude insisted. "She didn't just sing the tune. Even her _ words _ were the same!"

"Again, the holy people almost never leave Raqmu. I don't think they'd leave the country if they barely even leave their city."

"Maybe not in the present day, but what about in the past?" Claude said excitedly. Frenzied energy coursed through him, filling the set of his grin and flashing in the gleam of his eyes. His hands, tossed from Cyril's shoulders, ran themselves through the air wildly. "The Song of the Nabateans is one of the central hymns of their faith, and Rhea's version is practically a perfect translation of it. The motif of the song is built into several of the church hymns, which means that knowledge of this can't be just from some random Nabatean who decided to visit Rhea and sing her a sacred song--especially not considering the holy people _ hate _ Fodlan. If the song, words and all, was preserved to such an extent, it must be foundational to the Seiros faith as well! Yes...yes, what if their _ roots _...there's enough similarities..."

"What are you talking about--"

"I'm talking about _ dragon _ worship, Cyril!"

"Sothis looks human--"

"Under the _ Seiros _ faith. There's a few records relating to Agarthan worship of Sothis that survived as part of the Zeroth Archive, and in them, Sothis was interchangeably referred to as humanoid or draconic. The human figure became more prevalent in post-Agarthan Sothis worship, but wyverns continued to be viewed as messengers of the goddess up until the Five Tribes made contact with Fodlan. A-a-and even in the modern faith, dragon worship persists to a certain extent. They call it the _ Immaculate One _ or whatever, but that's a _ dragon _." Claude ran a hand through his hair, making its strands stand even higher on their ends. 

"The Nabateans are the only people in Almyra that solely practice dragon worship. There's other regions that feature dragons as deities, but they are all still worshipped under the Temples of Asha. The Nabateans are the only ones completely separate. The dragons they worship aren't named, but their faith seems to pre-date that of dragon worship in Fodlan. What if...what if Sothis is just an offshoot of a Nabatean deity?" Claude giggled. "_ Fodlan's goddess _ . Can you _ imagine _if she was worshipped in Almyra first?! Oh, gods above, you think that's why it's Rhea's little secret song?"

"Uhhh--"

Claude let out a loud gasp. "Gods, that would mean the Nabateans were involved in the founding of the Agarthan civilization! Shit...Neuesi would be losing it if she was hearing this right now. Gods, who am I trying to fool? _ I'm _ losing it. This is First Archive-worthy material! Cyril, isn't this exciting?!"

Cyril jolted back from Claude's sudden forward step. "I-I don't even know what an Agor...Agarsin...I don't know what you're talking about."

"Agartha!" His hands swatted at the air impatiently. "You know, everyone in Almyra's always going _ oh Fodlan, that place is so backwards--" _

"--yeah..."

"--but that wasn't always the case! Fodlan used to have the most advanced civilization in the world, and if the old records are anything to go by, it was a civilization that _ still _ has yet to be matched by any in the modern era. That was the Agarthans. So advanced, they managed to destroy most of the world during the Long Night." Cyril blanched and Claude quickly added, "Which is awful! Of course. _ But _ the fact that they were able to speaks volumes about their technology. Even just the scraps of their preserved knowledge pushed Almyran science forward by a century once they were translated. People have been desperate to do digs in Fodlan to see if they could find any more Agarthan artifacts, but Fodlan is completely closed off, so that hasn't happened." Another loud gasp. "But...when I'm duke…"

"You're...planning to dig up Fodlan?" Cyril stuttered blearily, head still attempting to wrap itself around the odd names Claude was firing off so rapidly.

"Not _ all _ of it," Claude dismissed. "Based on the amount of similarities between old Khidran and Agarthan compared to ancient western Fodlani languages like old Mach, the Agarthan civilization's sphere of influence must've been centered near the Almyran border. And, practically all great civilizations had their beginnings along rivers, so it stands to reason that Agartha was the same. The Airmid is the only river near the Almyran border. Putting the two together, our best chances of finding Agarthan ruins is in Goneril, Ordelia, or Hrym territory. I hope it's in the first two. I don't know Ferdinand nearly well enough to leverage a favor. Huh, or maybe it's time to start..." Claude stilled for just a moment, then like a bowstring released, his energy fired forward. His hands rubbing together to expend just a fraction of his excitement. "Ah, a completely new angle to look at! Maybe I'll make Seteth happy and attend the sermons again. Fantastic. This is fantastic. Isn't this _ fantastic _?"

Cyril dodged one of Claude's wide swinging gestures. "Honestly, I still don't know what you're going on about." Claude's mouth fell open as if to unleash another torrent of words--"And-I-really-don't-think-you-saying-any-more-is-going-to-help." A beat. "Sorry."

Claude's mouth hung for another beat before snapping shut, a point of red rising high in his cheeks. "Of course," he coughed. "Sorry. Got carried away there."

"You really did." The wind blew and Cyril shuddered.

Claude laughed softly. "I've kept you out here for quite awhile, haven't I? It was well worth it for me, but for you…" His fingers drummed against his chin. "Why don't we make it worthwhile?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're at the Goddess Tower," Claude said, gesturing upwards. "Or at least, at the base of it. Haven't you heard? If two people wish for the same thing at the tower tonight, then the goddess will make it come true without fail."

"Isn't it supposed to be for a man and a woman?"

"Oh come on, if it was really like that, then someone like Teach would never get their wish granted here. You don't think the goddess would be so cruel as to do that, do you?"

"I dunno," Cyril shrugged. "It's not like I go to church."

"The answer is no, the goddess is all loving of her creations." Claude shook his head. "And you rag on _ me _ for skipping service."

"Yeah, because you're a noble!"

"Regardless, what I was trying to say is...why don't I help you make your wish?"

"I don't have a wish," Cyril said immediately.

"So fast! Take your time. Think about it a little."

Cyril folded his arms around him. It was cold. He just wanted to return to the dance hall. But Claude stood between him and warmth, and he suspected that he wouldn't be granted passage without an answer.

It was a question that had been asked again and again. What did Cyril want? He hadn't thought of much beyond how to get through a day for years and years now, and suddenly everyone seemed to want him to have dreams and hopes. The future loomed, and he wanted to look forward to it, to think that he _ could _ look forward to it, but to let himself…

Cyril shivered. "There isn't anything I can think of."

"It doesn't have to be a grand wish," Claude said. "I pray that tomorrow is pheasant day. I pray that good weather will come this summer. I pray that someone will actually show up for our big reunion in five years."

Cyril fiddled with his fingers. "Well, at the very least...I'll be there, so you don't gotta worry about that last one not coming true."

"Oh?" Claude's eyes twinkled. "There you go granting my wish, but this is supposed to be for _ you _. So now I really can't let you go without getting a wish out of you."

"Hey!"

"Come on."

"I _ wish _ that you'd just let me go," Cyril grumbled.

"Fine, fine, your wish is my command. But," Claude raised a finger, "why don't we make a compromise?"

"What's that mean?"

"Well, it seems we both hope to be back at the monastery in five years. So, I'll let you go, but!" The finger waggled tauntingly. "Just for now. In five years, tell me a proper wish, and we'll pray for it together then."

Cyril sighed. Claude always seemed to enjoy being troublesome to deal with. "Fine."

"Alright!" His hands clapped together in a loose imitation of prayer. "Now you gotta make the wish with me!"

Cyril rolled his eyes, but brought his hands together. "Ok...now what?"

"Now, we offer our finest prayers to the goddess." He cleared his throat a few times before taking a solemn mein. "Oh, holy goddess, we beseech you! Grant us your strength and make our most sacred of wishes come true! Look upon us with mercy and love, for we cast our fate at your feet!" As quickly as the pious mask had slipped on, it fell off. "There, that should do it."

"Neither of us are even proper believers. I don't think we'll be first in line for wish granting."

"Indeed, this wish seems like something we'll have to take into our own hands." Claude slung an arm over Cyril's shoulders and began to pull him along as he made his return to the dance hall. "Good thing we both plan to, eh?"

"I can still change my mind," Cyril said, ducking free of Claude's hold.

"No you can't. We both prayed for it. It's a pact now. And I've fulfilled half of the wish." Claude threw open the doors to the hall. "So make sure you keep up your half of it."

Before Cyril could retort, Claude had already pranced off to peel Dedue off the wall and to the dance floor where pairs still spun. It wasn't long until Lysithea pulled him back into the circling fold.

One-two-three.

One-two-and-three.

The rhythm drove itself into his bones.

Even as he laid in bed, the aching thrum of his feet thudded in time with the waltz. The night had grown long, the new day would arrive soon. It would be an early day, as it always was. He should've slept long ago, he should've been exhausted, and yet the waltz would not leave him.

He turned, twisting his blankets around him more tightly.

One-two-three.

One-two-three.

One-two-three.

He willed the rhythm out of him. Slowed it down until the waltz turned to a lullaby.

Lady Rhea's voice hummed in his head.

The wind rushed in the air. The beating of wyvern wings. His father's echoing voice, singing among the crags as the wyverns turned in the sun. His body lying in the grass, eyes shut.

Against his pressed ear, the rumble of someone's voice.

The lullaby sounded, voice so unlike the song offered to the wind. It was low and close, binding itself to him and him alone. The pitch was off at times, and the voice caught in its own throat. Imperfect, but he ached for it more than any other.

_ Was one of your parents from Obodas? _

Eyes still shut, he reached up to embrace the neck his head rested against.

His arms were too small to wrap all the way around. A laugh and the feeling of someone pulling him closer.

And then, his mother's voice repeated the lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhea: Sings a song  
Claude: 50 conspiracy(?) theories at once
> 
> Anyways, yeah, this is the second bit of wild divergence from canon, which mostly came about because of where the real life Nabataeans are, but it also works out for the story, so fun coincidence. Originally, I was going to try to finish this last week, but then with the dlc coming out I figured this was the last chance to cut this if canon wildly contradicts this idea, but I don't think it does so here it is.
> 
> I don't update very often, so in case you're having trouble keeping it all straight, a quick summary of the provinces again, and also their name origins. Because I am not a very creative person and I shamelessly rip off of real life, so I should give credit where credit is due. Each province is basically named after a military figure from the region the province is based off of, while the capital taken from the name of the region. 
> 
> Khidr: Named after Ottoman admiral, Hayreddin Barbarossa, whose birth name was Khidr. The capital 'Anadolu' is taken from the name for the Anatolia region. The region that borders Fodlan. Claude's grandmother and father are from here, as is Cyril's father.
> 
> Kamangir: Named after Arash Kamangir (whose legend I also shamelessly ripped off), an archer in Iranian mythology. The capital of 'Parsa' is taken from Persia. Holds the capital of Almyra and is considered the most prominent province as its religious and government center.
> 
> Temujin: Named after Genghis Khan, the khan who ruled the Mongol Empire at its height, whose birth name was Temujin. The capital is 'Altai', taken from the Altai-sayan region. To the east of Kamangir.
> 
> Obodas: Named after Obodas I, king of the (real life) Nabataeans. The capital is 'Urbi', taken from Arabia. The (fictional) Nabateans live in 'Raqmu', which is just the original name for the city of Petra. South of Kamangir, east of Amani. Like most of Almyra, the Temples of Asha are the primary faith, but the Nabateans worship something else entirely and are referred to as "holy people" due to their association with Sepandarmaz from Almyra's founding. Claude's grandfather and Cyril's mother are from here.
> 
> Amani: Named after Amanirenas, the queen of Kush. Supposedly, 'Amanirenas' just means 'Amani is her name', so for the sake of keeping the number of consonants similar between the province names, it was shortened to 'Amani'. The capital is 'Taseti', taken from one of the old names for Nubia. South of Khidr, west of Obodas. Houses archives that contain knowledge and works deemed important to humanity.


	30. Turn

"So? So?! How'd I do today?!" Cyril dashed around so that he paced in front of Shamir.

"You did pretty well," she replied.

"Pretty well?! Wow!" His embrace on his bow tightened. "That's better than fine! Right?"

"You can take it that way. It was interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Your accuracy doesn't drop much even when you're on the move. It's a good skill to have."

"Good?!" Cyril's shriek increased in volume and Shamir leaned ever so slightly away from him. "That's...that's...definitely good!"

"That is what I said, yes." Shamir gave a small smile. "You've been doing better lately. Getting more sleep?"

Cyril flushed. "Umm...well…I actually didn't sleep too much yesterday night..."

"Danced all night. I know. I saw," Shamir said, smile widening by a smidgen. "I meant in general. Heard you finally quit all those chores you were doing--"

"I still work in the stables!"

"Yes, so now you're doing a normal amount of work," Shamir said flatly. "It's nothing you need to be ashamed about. Hasn't everyone been telling you to do this for ages? And look." Her hand swept towards Cyril. "Results. It's better to commit to something rather than spreading yourself thin doing too much. Remember that."

"...alright," he mumbled.

"Keep working on the axe with Byleth. You've got potential."

Warmth bubbled and fizzed, pushing Cyril's mouth up into a sloppy grin. It was a heady sort of joy, so heady he missed the ringing of the chimes for half past the eighth bell.

Shamir raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to go see Lady Rhea?"

"Oh!" Cyril jolted. "Thanks for today! I'll see you tomorrow, Shamir!" He gave one last wave and began to dash away.

Today's practical would end a little earlier, which left more time for studying with Lysithea. She had been pleased as of late with his progress, and he thought of Shamir and her advice. 

He still wasn't sure what to feel about quitting his jobs at the monastery. His work had been reduced to the amount of chores done by students, and the church had found replacements for him as quickly as if they were producing them from thin air. It was unsettling how easily his place was taken. How the place he had thought so binding was just a binding he had forced into existence himself.

His daily meetings with Lady Rhea had been reduced to him tittering on about his lessons while she listened. She always looked happy with his ramblings, but he couldn't help but feel guilty. At least before, with Lady Rhea assigning him tasks, he could lie to himself and pretend that he hadn't wasted her time. Now even that illusion had been stripped away and the truth revealed.

He was only here because Lady Rhea wanted him to be here.

Still, unstable as it was, given--gifted--as it was, he had no intentions to turn away from it. If he ignored the guilt, his days were more enjoyable now than before.

The winter sun had only just begun to peak over the horizon, late to rise like a child enjoying the warmth of bed. Yet, the monastery was already bustling. Monks streaming to morning service, students preparing for classes, and beleaguered kitchen staff finally enjoying a moment now that breakfast had ended.

He caught sight of the boy from the greenhouse, walking with one hand shoving bread in his mouth, and the other laced in the palms of a little girl by his side. The boy was finishing the last of his bread when he met Cyril's gaze. Immediately, his face scrunched like a crumpled rag and his tongue sprung from his mouth to blow a raspberry in Cyril's direction.

Cyril's face had already drawn together and the tip of his tongue was almost out of his lips before he caught himself. Childish. He sniffed and turned his nose high and away.

The boy let out a snicker and Cyril bristled more.

The boy let out a scream and Cyril turned on his heels.

Or maybe it wasn't the boy. Maybe it was the thing he was pointing at with a shaking finger that was letting out that awful screech.

Black ooze poured from a lump, wriggling like maggots swarming a corpse. The thing looked almost like a human at first, doubled over in pain. A human that was being dragged out in every direction by the black maggots. Arms pulled out into claws, legs into haunches. Spine into tail. 

The scream gurgled as if it were choking on the ooze. Its mouth widened to better let out the sound, opening wider, wider, wider--

Sinew stretched and tore. The thing that could've been the head split in two. The scream shook the grounds. Shook Cyril and beat at his heart. Shook the shock from the onlookers, and their rising screams mixed with the thing's in an unholy duet. 

The boy had fallen, his sister behind him. 

Run. Run. Run.

Black ooze poured from the mouth, dripping like tar onto the grounds. Each drop hissed as it touched the snow, burning even the grass sleeping underneath as if it were repulsed by the life that dared to spring from the earth. The scream cleared of its gurgling. It's mouth moved.

** _IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS._ **

It twisted. It writhed. Claws digging trenches into the frozen dirt. Tail thrashing wildly. Black spittle flying, burning the monks attempting to flee.

The boy clutched his sister to him, but they could not move.

** _ITHURTS. ITHURTS. ITHURTS. ITHURTS._ **

Cyril ran towards them. The scream rose, the thing's tongue fell from its mouth, and the words were lost with it.

** _ITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSITHURTS_ **

Its limbs flailed about in every direction. Snow flew. Stone cracked. Cyril leaped and pushed the siblings to the ground. A clawed arm swept over them.

Run, he wanted to say. But the screeching devoured all words. He tried to stand. To pull them along and flee. But they were pillars of salt growing on his feet, rooting him to the ground.

The thing flailed. Cyril pulled them closer.

Nothing hurt. The thing's screaming intensified to impossible peaks.

It's arm laid half sunken into the snow in front of Cyril. 

He turned and saw Jeralt between them and the thing, sword covered in the black ooze. Tendrils shot forward from its stump, but Jeralt planted his feet more firmly and swung his sword again. One stroke and the tendrils fell, splitting back into black maggots.

"Shit. Another one of these damn things. Leonie!" Jeralt shouted. "Get these kids out of here!"

The thing's tail turned sharply, aimed to skewer Jeralt as his back was turned. Before Cyril could properly cry out, a bone-like whip thrashed against it, severing the tail from its body.

Cyril caught sight of Byleth pulling the whip back into a sword before he felt arms hauling him to his feet.

"Hurry up! Let's go!" Leonie slung her bow onto her back as she pulled the girl up and pushed her into Cyril's arms. "Cyril, help me with her." She picked the boy up and with her free hand, pulled along Cyril's wrist as she broke into a run. Cyril pulled the girl closer and stumbled. Balanced himself. Pumped his legs. Ran.

Leonie's pace was relentless, but somehow he kept it.

They didn't stop until they had reached the courtyard outside the classrooms. Immediately, Leonie set the boy down and gave him a quick once over before checking Cyril and the girl. She nodded. "Cyril, can you take care of them?"

Cyril supposed he must've nodded in return because in the next moment, Leonie had taken off, already swinging her bow back into her hands. 

The shriek rang louder than any bells. Cyril's fingers digging into his palms. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the cry made him well aware that this was real. He breathed.

He had to take care of them.

He opened his eyes. The two were clutching each other, faces pale as the snow surrounding them.

"A-are you hurt?" Cyril stuttered.

"It followed us all the way from Remire," the boy said, eyes unfocused. "Mila, it came here."

The girl's teeth chattered and her vice grip on his coat tightened.

"I'm sorry. I should've let it eat me. Then it wouldn't have come all this way." The boy curled around his sister, head dropping, but his mumbling no less distinct. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The screams kept rising in the distance. More of those things all letting out the same cry of pain. Multiplying, overlapping, over and over and over again. A mantra to accompany the boy's.

Wave after wave, and Cyril unable to stop it anymore than he could turn back the ocean's tides.

The bells chimed nine, but the time had already lost its meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Jeralt, you only get one line in this fic.


	31. Faith

Cyril shifted as quietly as he could from his crouching position, feet beginning to feel the sting that came from kneeling for too long. Flayn had yet to move despite the fact that they had been hiding underneath the podium within the side room of the Archbishop's Chamber since much earlier that morning. 

Flayn had intercepted him the night before. _ Please, _she had begged. The knights would meet with Lady Rhea in the morning to discuss the attack, and for whatever reason, Seteth was nearly as insistent that Flayn be kept from the meeting as Flayn was determined to hear what would be discussed.

It had been easy enough to convince the girl holding the dawn shift of cleaning the chamber that he was generously offering to cover her so that she could rest. He didn't feel too badly about the lie. He _ did _ clean the room. He also left the doors unlocked so that Flayn could slip in and then locked the doors again with them still inside.

"...in total, nine bodies were discovered among the corpses of the demonic beasts," he heard Shamir say. "We've checked among the students. There were...three that are unaccounted for."

Cyril sucked in a harsh breath. There was a brief pause. He could imagine Lady Rhea nodded once. Not a movement wasted in her stone-like tranquility. "Alois, have there been any missing persons reports from town?"

"A few," Alois said. "But none that match the bones we've recovered. The knights checked the Abyss as well, but we've received no reports of missing people there."

Catherine snorted. "It's the _ Abyss _. People come and go all the time without a word."

"We may not be able to account for those without relations, but at the very least, if someone went missing, we would've been informed! It is still under our jurisdiction after all."

"I promise you most of them are hiding down there because they broke one law or the other. You really think they'd be so quick to let us know if someone decided to slip away?"

"Catherine's right. It's hard to be sure about the Abyss." Shamir gave a sigh of frustration. "It's the perfect place to kidnap those who won't be missed."

"Then we must increase the number of knights within the Abyss."

"Lady Rhea, I'm afraid to say they won't take kindly to that," Alois said hesitantly. "We also may not have as many knights to spare as you hope. The investigation of the western church is still ongoing, and with Captain Jeralt's passing…"

"Enough." The smooth stone showed its cracks. "We must carry on without him."

"I understand," Shamir said. "But the Abyss isn't the only target of suspicion. We spoke to the survivors of Remire village. They reported seeing demonic beasts running off prior to our arrival that day. There is reason to believe that the experiments reported by the Golden Deer are the same as whatever created the demonic beasts that attacked the monastery."

"Then the origin may be in the Empire."

"Or it could be Faerghus," Catherine added. "Too much trouble has been brewing there as of late for my liking."

"Tch. I wonder...it seems that we are being spread thin. Quite convenient." Cyril shuddered at the ice in Lady Rhea voice, false calm more chilling than the winter wind. "With Faerghus the way it is, we have little choice but to continue the investigation of the western church ourselves. But for the Empire, send word to King Ionius and notify him of our suspicions. Edelgard as well. We must know if there are other villages like Remire."

"The Empire?" Alois said with surprise. "They haven't been exactly _ friendly _ with the church for generations now…"

"The lives of their citizens are at stake. Regardless of what conflicts may exist between us and the ruling powers of the Empire, that must pale in importance compared to this threat. I'm certain they will cooperate."

"I understand."

"In the meantime, spare what knights you can from town and send them to increase security in the Abyss. In addition, they should remove those who are suspected of being involved with recent kidnappings and...experiments, if that is truly what is occurring beneath our noses."

"That would describe more than a few people in the Abyss..."

"Kidnapping? Perhaps. Demonic beasts? I believe that requires those particularly lacking in conscience."

Cyril chewed his lip. He had never seen the mysterious underground, but he knew that people less lucky than him found themselves in its depths. Foreigners with no guarantors and no desire to die. Unable to live in the three countries by law, but still facing hostilities within the church's neutral territory, there was only one place to escape to. Or be forced into.

It was easy to predict what kind of people would be suspected first.

His fingers curled into fists. If they were forced out of neutral territory, it would be the same as an execution. Rage coiled in his stomach, and more than ever he wanted to let it fly from his mouth and devour the ones who created the demonic beasts.

Something moved beside him and Cyril flinched from his trance. He turned to see Flayn shaking, her eyes wide and blank as they peered into nothing.

She remained silent when Lady Rhea and the others had cleared from the room. Her steps were shaky as Cyril led her out of the chamber and to a quiet corner room where it would not be suspicious if they were found.

"I should have never come here," she said out of the blue. "I should have stayed hidden like my brother had asked of me."

It was Cyril's turn to stare. He blinked it away and leaned closer to Flayn. "What are ya talking about? Everyone's been real happy to have you here--"

"Because none of this would have happened if I had stayed hidden!" Flayn cried, voice sharpened with a desperate edge that Cyril had never heard from her before. The soft way of her words were scrubbed raw, her voice cracking into a horrified whisper. "My blood. I saw them. The Flame Emperor and the Death Knight. The ones involved with the demonic beasts. They took my blood."

_ There isn't much to be thankful for given the situation, but I am relieved to hear that she spent the majority of the ordeal asleep. _

"...you lied to Seteth, didn't you?" He swallowed. "You weren't asleep."

Flayn flinched. "It was not a lie...I did spend much of it asleep." Her already tight fists strained closer shut. "When I am gravely injured, I am able to heal by sleeping."

Cyril felt himself go even colder. "Wait, did they--"

"I apologize, Cyril. I have said too much." Her shaking stopped, but her gaze was still dulled when she lifted her head to look at him. "Please. Keep this a secret from my brother."

"Hey, Flayn!" The loud voice echoed into the room, the reverbs making the two jolt away from each other. Claude waved. "Seteth's looking for you. He's probably still in his office."

"Oh!" Flayn bolted to her feet. "Th-thank you. I will go to him immediately."

Claude watched her run off, and Cyril watched Claude, wondering how much he had heard. Claude caught his stare and raised a brow. "What?"

"N-nothing."

"Huh." He cocked his head, but seemed content to let the matter go. 

"Did you need something from me?"

"Not in particular," Claude said, stepping into the room. "Been checking up on all the Deer. Yesterday was...well." With a sigh, Claude pushed the shadow that had drifted onto his face aside. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine. I didn't get hurt or anything. Jeralt--" 

Jeralt had saved him. Jeralt had stood between him and the demonic beast. Jeralt was dead.

"He didn't die because he saved you," Claude said, reading Cyril's thoughts as easily as he read words on a page. "It wasn't a demonic beast that killed him."

"Oh." He wondered why that didn't make him feel any more at ease. "How...how did he…"

"The girl you guys found when Flayn was kidnapped. Monica, was it? She stabbed him."

"What?!" The surprise made Cyril leap to his feet. His fingers twisted themselves into his tunic. "Why would she...none of this makes any sense!"

Flame Emperor. Death Knight. Monica. Tomas. Demonic beasts. The western church.

Piece by piece, the quiet life he had been given was being chipped away. For so long, the monastery had been a refuge. Now, the horrors that he knew must wait beyond the sanctum were clawing their way in. Then it would all be the same as before. A wave of death, a riptide of war; dragging him from the lands he had just managed to crawl onto and pulling him back into its depths.

It would take everything that mattered. It always did. And then somewhere, the high power that made it all so would declare victory while he and every other person too small for their grand vision would be left with their broken pieces. Out of sight, out of mind. 

"I have a wish now," Cyril said quietly, voice taut. "I wish that war would stay away. I wish that things could stay peaceful. I guess the world is too much to ask for, even for a goddess. But at least at the monastery...just for a little longer...I wish things could stay peaceful." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I should've prayed more to Fodlan's goddess."

Claude let out a soft laugh. "Well, if that was your wish, I would've gladly made it with you. But the goddess doesn't make peace or war. Humans make both. Maybe rather than something granted, it's a wish we can see through ourselves."

"It'd be better if it could be granted." How much simpler would it be if it could be just that? For the goddess to snap her fingers and wipe away those who would force the land to suffer another war. "Not like I can do anything anyways."

"Good deeds, good thoughts."

Cyril glared. "War _ is _ the good deed to some people. I'm not like you, Claude. I don't have a country at my feet."

"I think kings would do well to give you a listen."

"Sure," Cyril snorted. "They'd probably execute me for mouthing off, or if they're feeling _ real _ generous, they'll tell me they're grateful for my sacrifice." He was shaking, but he didn't care about looking put together. At least not in front of Claude. "I've spent almost my entire life stuck in the middle of some nobles' war, and now--"

"Hey, nothing's happened yet--"

"The western church is trying to rebel. A lord tried to kill Lady Rhea. Flayn was kidnapped. An entire village in the Empire got wiped off the map. Demonic beasts _ killed _ people yesterday! How is that _ nothing?! _"

"And we can still find whoever is behind all this," Claude said, raising his voice even above Cyril's din. Cyril dropped his gaze and Claude kneeled with a sigh, face tilted up so that Cyril had little choice but to meet his eyes. "The church is rallying all the countries together to face this, aren't they? Faerghus will back the Central Church as long it takes to resolve the attacks by the Western Church. I'm sure the Empire won't stand idly after what happened to Remire. And the Alliance will stand against the ones causing these deaths, I swear that to you. So…" Claude reached up and pressed one of Cyril's shoulders. "Don't lose yourself to this. Good deeds, good thoughts."

Cyril swallowed, and nodded stiffly once. Claude smiled then. He wore the smile well, well worn and frayed as it was. How many times had he offered it today?

"Claude, have you seen the professor?"

Cyril lifted his head to see Edelgard standing at the doorway. Her face was set in a stoney frown, but he could see a slight jitter in her jaw as she spoke, turmoil underneath breaking through to the surface. "I tried their room, but they weren't there."

"What? They came out? Really?" Claude stood, dusting off his knees.

"I see, so you don't know." Immediately, she turned away.

"Wait, what'd you need them for?"

"It's none of your concern. I simply wish to speak with them."

Claude shook his head. "No need to be so dodgy. I've got a few ideas about where to look. I'll help you find them."

"That isn't necessary. I only needed a simple yes or no. This is none of your concern--"

"I don't know, if a friend is troubled by something, isn't it my concern?"

Edelgard bristled, head turning to shoot Claude a glare. "I am not trou--"

"Yeah, yeah," Claude said, batting away the daggers being shot his way as he closed the gap between him and Edelgard in a few steps. "If you are so loath to be helped, think of it as you helping me find Teach. I'd like to talk to them too, you know."

"Honestly," she sighed.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Cyril!" One more wave, and two pairs of footsteps padded down the hall out of sight.

For the first time that day, Cyril was alone. It was like Claude had taken the warmth with him, and Cyril shivered. Good deeds, good thoughts. It was difficult when the stench of death still clung to the air. He could still hear the screaming, smell the burning flesh and putrid black oil that dripped from the thing's mouth. 

Demonic beasts. Like something out of scripture. The evils locked in the heavens given form, slipping by the gods on the night of the solstice.

Cyril shivered again.

He thought of the fire vessel, flickering a warm sphere of light around him. His father's face shifting with the shadow's movement, mouth moving in a quiet prayer. The thrum of his mother's voice against his back. His eyes had drooped, unable to keep vigil all of the solstice night. In ward of the vessel's light, fear had seemed a distant thing.

He wanted to pray.

But the only fire vessel was locked behind Claude's door. There was only one other holy place he knew, even if it wasn't his. 

The Cathedral was nearly overflowing. Services had been held for the deceased, but people stayed long after the mourning prayers had been offered. Some sat in the pews, head bowed, hands clasped between their knees, mouth moving in quiet prayer. Most had crowded on the floor beneath the glass dome covered by an image of the goddess. They kneeled at her feet, and from behind her upheld hands, the light shone down and scattered about the believers in hues of red and blue.

Deliverance. Safety. Peace. He could hear all those wishes among the hum of voices, melding and rising as one. Like smoke from a fire.

Cyril lingered at the light's edge. It didn't feel right to offer prayers from the temples in the cathedral, so he offered the only words of the goddess that he knew. Lady Rhea had repeated them almost ceaselessly the day before, and he had watched dully as she circled the room where the dead had been gathered.

"Oh, Goddess...hear my prayer," he said haltingly. "Please...receive this...beloved person." 

The siblings had followed him wordlessly as he pulled them along, under the awnings and out of the rain. Knights rushed by, carrying corpses between them to lay out on the reception hall's floors.

"When the cold rain washes the body…" They were all laid out in neat rows. The knights had tried to make them look peaceful, but the red stains that seeped through the obscuring cloth broke the illusion.

"...when the bird and...wolf announce dawn…" The siblings had wandered off to the dining halls. There had been no one for them to look for, but there had been too many for him. Shamir. Claude. Ashe. Lysithea. Name after name, each a weight threatening to pull him into the wails rising from the people clinging to the corpses.

"Receive them into your...blue blood…" His heart had skipped a beat when he caught sight of the professor's teal blue hair. There had hardly been a second of relief when he realized that they were alive before he saw that their shoulders were trembling. Their head was buried in their hands. Their cry was one of the many. Their father was laid out before them. Jeralt, who had stood between him and beasts, was laid out before them.

"Receive them into a twinkling star."

"It's supposed to be _ into _ your _ twinkling star _."

Cyril's head turned at the voice, eyes falling on the boy from Remire. The light in the boy's eyes were still dimmed, but there was a hint of the stubborn turn of his mouth that Cyril had grown used to.

"It's talking about the goddess' star," the boy continued. "You can't just send them off to any star."

"Thanks," Cyril grumbled, almost too tired to feel a pinch of annoyance. Almost.

"You gotta get them right. That's the only way prayers work. Like this." The boy clasped his hands and bowed his head. "Oh, Goddess, hear my prayer. Bless the roads that he may walk. May each step be one filled with your light, so that his travels be for the profit of his soul and body. When he returns to you, let it be with joy from a journey well taken."

"That...doesn't really sound like the prayer I was trying for…"

"Of course not. It's not a prayer for the dead." His hands fell to his sides, but his eyes remained at his feet. "It was for you."

Cyril blinked. "...me?"

"Yeah." The boy's hands folded themselves behind him. "My mom prayed lots. She was real good at it. She used to say that one for me and Mila every day. That's why...that's why we survived that day. So I know it works." His body suddenly bent in a deep bow, and Cyril took a step backwards. "Thanks. For saving us."

"I...I didn't really," Cyril spluttered. Before he could finish, the boy had already turned tail and ran. 

Cyril's eyes followed him, and at the entryway of the cathedral, he saw--"Professor!"

The call caught their attention, and they waited for Cyril's approach. Cyril swallowed as he neared. Their eyes were rimmed red, and the gaze usually like still waters seemed more like a deep abyss. It was odd how plainly he could see the expression on their face. 

Why had he called out? Why had he approached? The silence stretched, and all Cyril could think to say was, "C-claude was looking for you."

"I know," they said, voice quiet and scratched. "I spoke to him."

"I...umm...so...what are you doing here?"

"I don't know." A pause. "The church is going to bury him. There's funeral rites, but I don't know any of them. I've been around corpses all my life, and I don't know how to bury one."

"Lady Rhea always said good things about Captain Jeralt. If ya ask her, sh-she'd help you."

Byleth gave a soft hum. 

"I...I…" He stilled himself and bowed. Averted from their gaze, the words came more easily. "I don't know if it's right for me to say it...but I'm grateful to him. For saving me yesterday."

"...I'm sure he's happy he saved you, Cyril." Slowly, he lifted his head. The ghost of a smile was on their face. "Thank you."

"Huh?"

"I hope...you live a long life." They offered no more explanation before walking away, leaving Cyril to stare at their retreating back.

The professor's wish. The boy's prayer. The prayers that rose in the cathedral behind him. For the moment, the dread passed from him.

Good deeds, good thoughts.

Perhaps, after all, it would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard: Feeling guilty  
Dimitri: Starting to slide off his slippery slope  
Byleth: Feeling for the first time and that feeling is despair  
Claude: Would like to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling but unfortunately someone has to keep it together


	32. The Path of the Arrow (Thunder)

If he let himself, he could still remember.

The first day he had been picked as a message runner, a soldier had stood before the handful of them that had been plucked from children maintaining the camp. Her eyes had washed over them, frown settling deeper and deeper as they passed over each child. He had tried to sit himself up, to glare back, but whatever attempt he made only drew out a tired sigh.

_ Listen well, _ the soldier had said, _ you're to be message runners, not soldiers. If someone attempts to attack you, run. Don't fight. _

_ Why not?! _ a boy had piped from his side. _ We've been training-- _

_ Not nearly enough. _ Another sigh had pushed through her lips. _ But, if it comes to it, remember one thing. _

_ Go for the head! _a girl had squeaked, arms swinging at the imaginary enemy only she saw.

_ No _ , the woman had said with a withering look. _ Remember this: don't hesitate. Don't think. _

That had been his mistake at the Locket, Cyril thought. He had dwelled too much on matters other than his survival. He couldn't draw a clear line. Claude had said it was better that way, but in order to fight--to be of use--there would be no place for half-drawn resolve. 

Mourning and guilt would have to come after.

At least this time, the line was clear. He wouldn't forgive those involved in torturing Flayn, in turning humans into monsters, in making the monastery a second Remire.

Don't think. Strike first. 

Cyril took a steadying breath, fingers brushing against the ash dusted cloth around his waist. The remains of a fire, still carrying with it the ghost of the flame, pushed away the cold dread seeping in with the Faerghus fog. The knights and the Golden Deer walked in a tight formation, half from the narrow width of the road, and half to be closer to one another as the trees' shadows loomed over them. 

His eyes wandered to Lady Rhea. Her face was impassive despite the nervousness looming over them all. She was flanked by Shamir, Catherine, and the professor--as safe a triangle to be guarded by as he could imagine. Even so, they were expecting a fight with the Western Church. It was odd to think Lady Rhea so calm walking into bloodshed. Calmer than him, and he had served in an army. 

Calmer perhaps, than even the professor. In all the battles he had seen Byleth fight, their face had always been like a blank mask. Now, their grip on the Sword of the Creator was white knuckled, and the set of their jaws hardened their neutral expression into one of stony fury. He wondered if this was the first time they would kill because they wanted to.

"This is taking too long," he heard Ashe say. Cyril's gaze slipped back in front of him to see Ashe twisting his bow in his hands. "Are you certain this fog is a sign that we're approaching them?"

"For the last time," Lysithea said, edge of frustration in her voice, "_ Yes! _This fog is from sorcery, so--"

"Shhh." Claude brought a finger up to his lips and Lysiteha's mouth sealed itself shut as if he had put it up to hers. "Don't get distracted."

"Right." The bow in Ashe's hands gave a strained creak. "Of course."

_ Thwack _.

Cyril turned.

Five paces back, a ripple of knights turned as well, circling upon Byleth who had appeared in their mist. The sword of the creator was raised in their hand, and at their feet, a lone arrow that would've stuck one of the knights.

Shield knights rushed to surround Lady Rhea as Catherine, and Shamir scattered. Shamir loosed an arrow into the fog. The strangled cry moments later meant that it had somehow found its target. Catherine barely waited before disappearing into the fog in the direction of Shamir's arrow.

"Into formation!" Byleth shouted.

Cyril immediately darted behind Raphael, who had swung a large iron shield between him and the forest's edge. Ignatz and Ashe stumbled behind him mere moments after, and no sooner had they done so that Cyril could hear the sharp clangs of arrows on metal. One flew off the shield's curved surface with such force it buried itself into the ground.

The other Golden Deer had positioned themselves similarly. Claude and Marianne behind Hilda. Leonie and Lysithea behind Lorenz. Raphael, with the largest shield, had been tasked with guarding three.

Cyril could not see the other groups, but he knew they were all doing as they were: dipping their own arrows into black tar and lighting the tips on fire. Attempting to light the tip on fire. Cyril chewed his lip, willing the flame to catch on the tar.

The arrow clangs paused. Immediately, Ashe and Ignatz darted out from behind Raphael. Cyril jolted to follow them and the arrow's notch slid from the bowstring, clattering to the ground. At the same time, Ashe and Ignatz released their strings.

The flaming arrows cut a path through the fog, and where they fell, what had once been a blank canvas of mist-induced darkness filled with shifting shadows. Figures of people flailing about in an ugly dance. Cyril pressed his lips together.

The armored spearman and swordsman followed the lit paths with a cry, and the answering roar told Cyril that they had managed to encounter the forces of the western church. Byleth didn't wait before darting towards the sounds of battle, leaving Claude to order the remaining forces clustered around Lady Rhea. 

Raphael nearly tripped as he backed towards the cluster when Cyril was too slow in retreating himself. Ignatz had to haul him up and half drag him, stumbling backwards, to rejoin the formation properly.

From the road behind them, he heard the rapidly approaching clop of horses, and the shields tightened around Lady Rhea while the spearmen and archers formed a ring outside. Cyril drew his bow.

He focused on the very tip of the arrow, willing it to fly true. To fly into the enemy. To bury itself into their flesh, and make them flail about.

His hands shook.

Figures dressed in the vestments of the western church appeared from the fog. Claude shot first, an arrow slipping into the visor gap of one knights' helmet, sending them tumbling from their horse. The riders beside him fought to reign in their panicked horses, and amidst the confusion, Cyril could hear the archers beside him loose their arrows.

His arrow flew wide and hit a tree. Ignatz and Ashe's were more successful, striking the necks of the incoming horses. With the front line of their cavalry collapsing along the narrow path, the western church's knights were trapped at the choke point and the central church's spearman rushed forward. Under fire from archers and facing close combat, it wasn't long before the cavalrymen were killed.

The distant sounds of battle were quieting, and like a veil being lifted, the fog disappeared and the forest became all at once sharp in its clarity. The forest's edge had been closer than he thought, with the open field barely thirty paces down the road.

What remained of the enemy forces had lined themselves in the clearing, a small band of mages and spearmen surrounding a robed priest just as the knights surrounded Lady Rhea. Despite the stains and tears on his garbs, Cyril could still see the fine quality of the cloth itself. The wearer was without a doubt the bishop.

Lady Rhea motioned for the knights to move so that she was unblocked from the bishop's vision. Her face was passive, but her words rang colder and more biting than the fog that had lifted. "Do not further deepen your sins! Submit yourself to the mercy of the goddess."

"The goddess?!" The bishop let out a mocking laugh. "You _ dare _ speak of the goddess, witch?! Long have we watched your rule over Fodlan, and by the day the rot you've allowed grows! Look beside you, Knights of Seiros! Look at what that witch has allowed to crawl into the monastery!" 

The knights did not move, but Cyril could feel the air around them stiffen. They didn't need to turn to him for his heart to start pounding in anticipation for the bishop's next words. He knew what they would be. Shamir knew. And from the creak of his bow, Claude knew too.

"The goddess blessed this land for _ us _ ! The proper stewards can only be _ us _. Yet this witch dares to allow heathens onto holy grounds, to rise to holy ranks--"

"Do not speak of scripture to _ me _!" Lady Rhea roared. 

"Do not allow the witch's poison to spread any further!" the bishop screamed over her. "Let this battle be an offering to the goddess! We purify in her name--!"

The bishop fell backwards as one of the spearmen leapt between him and an arrow. The garbled gasp from the bishop was as if he were the one to receive an arrow to the throat rather than the spearman.

"I was only aiming for his shoulder," Claude sighed.

But no one reprimanded him. The early arrow was like a signal to rush forward. The vanguard of their forces met with that of the western church. Those that had followed Catherine and Byleth into the forest soon rejoined them, and the western church's lines were rapidly pushed back under the combined fire.

The bishop, for all his bluster, had no intentions of seeing through the full collapse. Even before the line had broken, the bishop was already fleeing across the field. Those clashing at the very front missed his escape, obscured by the shields and swords flashing before the combatants' eyes, but the archers surveying the field did not.

Ashe broke from his position and tore after the bishop.

"Cyril, Ignatz! Go after Ashe!" Claude commanded.

Cyril was already running even before Claude had finished. Ashe had started earlier, but Cyril had not been picked as a message runner in the Almyran army for no reason. Ignatz, without experience in neither Faerghus' weather nor the rougher roads of mountains, trailed behind while Cyril quickly closed the gap with Ashe. He watched Ashe pull his bowstring back, taking aim.

A fireball landed near Ashe's feet. Snow flew up in a wave, sending him stumbling to the side.

Cyril's eyes traced path of the spell to the forest's edge. There stood a mage; hands circled the air, light trailing from her fingers and splitting off into the symbols of a magic circle.

Cyril breathed in. Lifted his bow. Drew back the string. Breathed out.

The arrow flew forward and buried itself in the mage's chest.

There was no loud scream. No sudden twist of rage as she drew upon the last of her strength to burn him. The mage simply crumpled to the floor, quietly slipping away with such ease that Cyril could only stare. It couldn't have been his arrow that killed her. He felt too little for it to have been his arrow.

He heard the whistle of another arrow flying and a pained groan when it met its mark. Cyril tore his eyes from the dead mage to see Ashe on his knees, bow pointed high for a curved shot. Off in the distance, the bishop was half sunk into the snow, arrow sticking from his thigh.

Ashe pushed himself up and began to walk as fast as his limp would allow. The dull fury and hard set of his mouth never left, even as the bishop's piteous cries grew louder.

"It was your fault," Ashe said, eyes glaring down but head unbowed. "Lord Lonato's blood is on your hands."

"N-no!" the bishop gasped. He was on his back now, scrambling with his good leg and arms to distance himself from Ashe and Cyril. "You're wrong! It's the fault of that witch! We offered him salvation--"

"You used him and threw him away!" Ashe screamed. The bishop shuddered at the force of his step forward.

"Lonato was a true believer! He knew the sins of the witch. He knew that humans had to take back power before she allowed beasts to overrun this blessed land!"

"Don't lie!" Ashe lifted his bow.

Cyril lunged forward to pull back Ashe's arm. "Stop! Lady Rhea said we gotta catch him alive!"

"Lord Lonato was a good man!" Ashe cried as he pulled against Cyril's grasp. But it was too late: Ignatz had caught up and restrained his other arm. "Pushing his people to fight for something like that...he wouldn't have! You're lying!"

"He was a great man! He understood his responsibilities as one who ruled over the holy land better than anyone--"

"Save your breath." Cyril turned his head and saw Catherine approaching. "You'll have plenty of time for talking later." She patted Ashe's shoulder as she passed. "Good job. The knights can take it from here."

But Ashe didn't stop his struggling, even after Catherine had hauled the bishop out of sight. The moment Ignatz and Cyril loosened their grasp, he followed after the knights, leaving the two to return alone.

"Are you alright?" Ignatz asked as they walked back to rejoin the Golden Deer.

"Huh?"

"That mage...she was your first--"

"I'm fine," Cyril said. It wasn't a lie. There wasn't any particular feeling. He just felt a little hollowed out. Ignatz's question had made him feel a thornier spike than thinking about it. 

"I still get nervous about it," Ignatz said quietly. "Aiming at a person I mean."

"But you always hit."

"I always hit." A pause. "It was a good shot. She would've killed Ashe."

"I know."

"That's good. It's the most important thing to know. It's how I can hit."

When they returned, the Golden Deer and the remainder of the knights were capturing those that had surrendered. If the mage hadn't tried to kill Ashe, Cyril wondered if she would've been among them. One life for another. It had been so quickly decided, just by who fired first.

So simple. She fell and the world kept turning. Her allies were rounded up. The knights rejoined them. They all sighed with relief over the campfire for those that had survived. They all joined in prayer for those that had died.

The back of his mouth tasted bitter.

Cyril swallowed. He was thinking too much. If Ashe had been the one to die, then the world would've stopped, he was certain of that. And that would be much worse, wouldn't it? These were the people who were working with the Death Knight and the Flame Emperor. They would've never shown him mercy if he had been in their hands. They would've killed Lady Rhea. They would've never cared how many villages became like Remire so long as they grasped the power they desired.

So many had prayed for some measure of peace, for stability. Even if the goddess didn't hear them, he did.

His stomach turned, but he knew he'd shoot again.

"I never thanked you, did I?"

Cyril jolted. Ashe had settled beside him without a sound.

"I'm sorry. You saved me and I just...ran off. I'm grateful. Really." It was odd how Ashe kept staring at the ground. Cyril turned towards him, but Ashe would not look away from his feet.

"It's what allies do, right?" Cyril said hesitantly. "I'm sure you've saved and been saved plenty of times."

The corners of Ashe's lips curved up, bringing light to his tired face. "Even if this were the thousandth time I've been saved, I would never be less grateful to be alive."

"Well, you came on this mission because of your father, so I don't blame you for running off. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes." And yet, his face fell. 

"Is that...not a good thing?"

"It's…" Ashe swallowed. "It'll take some time to read through it all...but it feels like everything I learn just makes me more confused. I thought I knew Lonato, and yet..."

"It's not your fault that he did what he did," Cyril said.

Ashe shook his head. "No. I should have known that Lonato would hate the central church. Christophe was his only son. I called him father, but..." He took a sharp breath. "I was probably the only one who thought that. Of course he would hate the church for executing Christophe. I was too arrogant. I let myself believe him when he told me he was happy. I let myself think that I was enough."

"You weren't being arrogant! If he really thought so little of ya then he--"

"He was a good man," Ashe said fervently. "Christophe was a good man! That's why...that's why I can't understand." The words came quicker now, as they always did when Ashe became nervous. "I know he wasn't thinking about it. He was only thinking about Christophe, but it doesn't change who he was helping. He was always so kind to me! He always gave a place to me, to my siblings, even when I was just a thief that wanted his gold. But if he had succeeded...if the western church had succeeded…" The words slowed, catching in his throat. "If they had succeeded...what would've happened to you?"

_ Ah, _ Cyril thought. That was why Ashe couldn't look him in the eye.

It was easy enough to imagine. There was plenty of discontent now, even with Lady Rhea's allowances. His presence at the monastery had invited controversy since the day he had arrived. Shamir's position as a Knight of Seiros was called into question without end. He had even heard those from Leicester begging Lady Rhea to support the removal of Claude's title.

The balance was already a thin rope over a chasm, and there were many waiting below to tear him apart. To tear apart any outsider who tried to carve out a place for themselves. 

Cyril turned it over in his head, but was content to give silence as his answer.

It was enough for Ashe. He let out a sigh, and at last lifted his head to look at Cyril. "I thought I understood him. I thought I understood Christophe. I thought it was simple to love them, to be grateful to them, to support them through anything." A shaky laugh. "But then I also thought I understood you. That I understood Dedue. And I thought it was simple to cherish both of you and them all the same. Even though, if I truly tried to understand, I would've realized that what they wanted--what they did--would've just hurt you both. If I hadn't been at Garreg Mach when Lonato started his rebellion...I...I don't know." Ashe bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I always thought it was enough to be kind. I didn't try to understand your circumstances at all."

"...even I don't understand why things are the way they are for me," Cyril said quietly. "I think the ones who would've come the closest, were the people who were stuck in the same kind of circumstances I was. And if that's what it takes to understand, then I'd be happy if no one understood. So, it's alright. I'm glad you're my friend, Ashe. I know that much at least."

Silence fell with the falling snow, a pure white outline stark against the darkening sky. Not for the first time, Cyril wished for such simplicity in everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was like ripping out teeth. I never want to look at it again.
> 
> Anyways, I always found it wild how early on Seteth gives out a quest to look into why the western church is acting up against the central church and the answer given is essentially "they don't think the central church is xenophobic enough". What's even more wild is that Seteth hears this and goes "damn that's pretty shitty" and proceeds to do absolutely nothing until the western church directly affects his family.


	33. Tea

Following the end of the Western Church's rebellion, they had managed to glean the whereabouts of Tomas--Solon--from the captured bishop. To Cyril's frustration, he had been kept closer to the rearguard, but the little he heard from Claude was almost too fantastical to be true.

Byleth had disappeared into the darkness, cut themselves out, and emerged looking as though they were a lost relative of Lady Rhea. It was often said in Almyra that those dwelling in Fodlan were not quite human, but still this stretched the limits of fantasy.

Lady Rhea had been pleased. More than pleased. She had looked upon Byleth with such love that Cyril had never seen before. Seeing them side by side with Seteth and Flayn was like seeing a family gathered. It wasn't fair. He had known them all for longer, but the professor had managed to enter a circle of familiarity that he hadn't even known existed. He had thought himself close to Lady Rhea--to Seteth and to Flayn--but the clear line that appeared once Byleth had crossed it put him firmly on the outside.

In the end, he was Almyran. Their goddess did not bless him, their marks of similarity would never grace his features. No matter how kind they were, this would always be a chasm. Anyone looking in would see the professor as one who belonged by their side, and him an odd intrusion. Everyone looking in _ did _ see him as some sort of odd intrusion. A thorn to be picked out and discarded.

It felt lonely to look from the other side, but the more he thought about it, the more obvious it should have been to him. In the end, hadn't all the trouble been from one root cause? The rebellions, the foreigners that were driven in droves into the Abyss, then driven out. The bishop had called it a holy war to save Fodlan from the beasts that were threatening to overrun it.

Like a second coming of the King of Liberation, chosen by the goddess and gifted with her flames. Perhaps that was who that Flame Emperor was fashioning themselves after.

Tomas was dead, but his allies remained. People who thought like him remained.

Cyril had a corner of peace in this world because Lady Rhea wanted him to be in it, and he was prepared to fight for it. But, if his goal was to preserve that peace, should he continue to remain under Lady Rhea and keep inciting this growing ire? Perhaps--

"You have yet to touch your tea."

Cyril blinked. The Cyril reflected on the surface of the umber liquid blinked too.

Lady Rhea was not quite frowning, but her lips and brows were drawn into worry. "Is it unpleasant? I had thought it would be to your liking."

"Of course not!" Cyril said, rushing to put aside his downward spiral of thoughts. "It's delicious!" To punctuate the claim, he tipped the cup back and poured the tea down his throat, somehow managing to avoid choking on the over-generous gulp. 

The golden bitterness stayed in his mouth, one last sigh from the earthy mountain sides that had grown the leaves. It was a familiar sort of taste. He frowned into the remaining tea, staring hard at the deep mahogany, trying to catch the aftertaste once more. His eyes widened. "This is tea!"

"Well, yes," Lady Rhea said, words accompanied with a chiming laugh. "I am taking tea with you after all."

"Ah, no," Cyril spluttered. "I mean, this is...this is that stuff I used to drink back in Almyra. It's the stuff everyone was drinking. Everyone would just call it tea. I dunno if I can even remember what it's supposed to be called..."

"Here, it's called Seiros Tea."

"What? But that's the expensive stuff!" Cyril flinched at his own ringing cries and then said, quieter, "They're charging that much for it? You shouldn't buy it. The merchants are ripping you off! This stuff grows everywhere in Obo--southern Almyra. It's supposed to be the cheapest of cheap teas."

"It used to be even more expensive before Leicester began to trade with Almyra," Lady Rhea said, taking another sip of hers. "The climate here isn't suited for growing it."

Cyril peered at his cup. "Is it...that good?"

"Do you dislike it?"

"No, but...it was always everywhere. It was kinda like drinking water. It's hard to have much of an opinion on water."

Lady Rhea laughed again. "Yes, I can understand that. Here in Fodlan, it can only grow near Enbarr, and even then, it fails to produce consistent crops. It's a rarity, and the quality isn't nearly as good as what's imported."

"Everyone always planted whatever grew easiest back in Almyra." Cyril took another sip, trying to taste what hidden flavor drove Adrestians wild enough to waste their time with crops that were bound to fail. "I guess this _ must _ be really good if they're trying so hard."

"It's said that Saint Seiros had planted the first patch. I suppose Enbarr wished to honor the saint."

"I-if you really like it, you should ask for the Raqmu variety," he said eagerly. "A lot of people say the Nabataens grow it the best, although I can't really tell the difference..."

"I'll be sure to request it then," Lady Rhea said with a gentle smile. Her smile and gaze was held, and Cyril felt himself beginning to fidget. "You never used to speak much about your homeland."

"Oh." Cyril frowned. He never used to _think_ of his homeland very much. "Is that...bad?"

"No, that isn't what I meant. I'm glad. You were always rather closed off. I can hardly blame you for being uncomfortable, but I was never sure what to do. I think it was good that you took the opportunity to join a class while Claude was here."

"Y-yeah, it's been…" _ Could _ he say that it had been a good year? By all accounts, it had been an awful year. He had never felt closer to more people, and yet never pushed further away as well. Uncertain of what to say, he took another drink of the tea instead.

"Although, perhaps it would've been better if Claude had come a few years later instead," Lady Rhea continued. "You'll be old enough to officially enter and graduate from the Officer's Academy if you join the class in a year. If you're in a rush, you could even join the next class since we've set precedence with Lysithea and Petra."

He swallowed. There were no implications tied to those words, and yet he couldn't help but feel a prick. "Would it...would it be better if I left sooner?"

Lady Rhea lifted a brow. "Do you wish to leave? If you would, I can arrange for travel to the border."

Cyrils' teacup hit the table with a clang, tea sloshing from the edge and onto his fingers. What could he have in Almyra? No home, no prospects. Trust and worth was welded into the chain of ancestors attached to a name, and he couldn't even give the names of his parents. All he could offer was _ Cyril _ and that was worth nothing on its own. "No--that's not...I don't…."

The brow lowered and so did the corners of her mouth. "Is this about the Western Church then? I assure you, their rebellion is over."

"Is it? They weren't the only ones that don't like people like me here," Cyril said, words coming out so quickly they half overlapped with Lady Rhea's. "I thought...I thought that if I worked hard enough, then it'd be alright and eventually people wouldn't mind that I'm here, but that didn't happen. Nothing changed when I was working all the time for the church, and nothing's changed now that I'm _ not _ working. It didn't--it doesn't matter what I do. No one thinks I belong here. Even you--" Some part of Cyril tried to choke the rest back, but the momentum carried and it spilled from his mouth. "--you keep asking if I wanna go back to Almyra like it's fine for me to go back, but it's not! I _ can't _ go back and the only place I've got is here, and I can only stay here because you _ let _ me!"

"Cyril--"

"I don't want to go, but if something happens to ya I know I'd have to leave. Before there was always talk, but now, there's people willing to start a war over all this and I don't want something like that to happen either--"

"Cyril, I assure you--"

"The central church already removed Dagdans and Almyrans from the Abyss. Didn't they?"

Lady Rhea paled. "That's--no one was removed by their origin."

"They weren't, but they _ were _ too. I know you always tell me that I don't gotta believe in the goddess and that it's ok I'm from Almyra and all, but it's not what people in Fodlan think! They even think the _ Abyss _ is too good for people like me now! They think that the goddess wants us dead!"

Her mouth fell open to let out a protest, but the strike of another thought flitted across her face and collected the words before they could be heard. Cyril's pulse thudded in his ears as he watched an uncharacteristic shadow darken Lady Rhea's eyes. 

Finally, she sighed, and the wrinkled brow smoothed itself back into serenity. "The goddess would not wish that upon you, regardless of how others may twist her words. Of that, I have no doubt. But, Cyril, I did not ask for you to stay here by her will. I simply didn't want to watch you continue to suffer, and that will not change regardless of the circumstances. I asked if you preferred to return to Almyra because I feared that you were unhappy here, but if you would truly rather remain here, then don't think of what others may say. As long as you wish for it, then this place will be your home."

There was something missing still from her words, and briefly the void hissed for him to give it form. But the tug from that was barely stronger than the flutter of a butterfly's wing compared to the rush of relief that flooded him. "Is it...is it really alright to think that?" He swallowed. "I don't want to cause more problems."

"Fools will always persist. It's not for you to accommodate them. And that aside, I'd be much happier if you were to stay."

"R-really?"

"Really. If you were to leave, who would take tea with me like this? Who would make time to see me every day?"

Cyril felt his ears grow warm. "Wait, wait! You're the one making time for me!"

"Am I? Seteth used to complain about how hard it was to find you."

"But you're the archbishop!"

"I am," Lady Rhea said with a laugh. "Why should that mean I prefer to be alone in my contemplations at all times? Even the goddess is never alone, you know. The two halves of the blue star circle each other for eternity, and yet people should find it odd that I enjoy company."

"I don't think it's odd! I…" Cyril averted his gaze. "I dunno, I guess I was worried I was wasting your time."

"I suppose that should surprise me more, and yet…" A sigh pushed through her lips and set their line into a piteous smile. "You know, this was the first time you told me you wanted to stay here."

"Huh?" His focus snapped back up. "No way, I must've said it a dozen times!"

"No, this was the first. You always used to apologize for being here. If I think about it, I suppose I've never asked you properly." She set her cup down, leaning forward as she did so. "What is it that you want for your future, Cyril? I've offered this and that, but I've never heard a request from you in proper."

Seteth's question was now Lady Rhea's question, and still that brought him no closer to an answer. "I'm still thinking about it."

"You'll tell me once you do, won't you? Whatever it is you may need, I want you to be honest with me."

His mouth opened to offer an empty _ yes _. But it would be a lie. Did it have to be a lie? Taking the offered hand, taking the opportunities offered--he hadn't fallen yet this year.

"I..I think I'd like to graduate from the officer's academy one day, but...um...there's something else I need to do first." He licked his lips, willing the shame away. "I-I can't read."

"You can't read." Lady Rhea blinked. "I've _ written _ you lists."

"I kinda...just memorized what you were saying." Under her blank stare, Cyril automatically stuttered, "Sorry."

The same odd shadow from earlier crossed over her face again. "No, I should've been the one to notice. I apologize."

"I've been studying with Lysithea lately!" Cyril added quickly. "I think I'm getting better, but, it's still...well, it's not good enough to follow along in classes yet. I know the officer's academy isn't for teaching stuff that basic, but after Lysithea leaves--"

"Of course, I'm sure I can find you a tutor from town."

"R-really?" He wasn't sure where he found the sudden rush of courage from, but before he fully understood it, he found himself saying, "Maybe they could teach the other kids here too!" Lady Rhea stared again, and Cyril scrambled to explain further. "Th-there's a lot of kids who stay here, ya know? Especially after Remire, and it's not like they know what to do with themselves. In Almyra the temples always had schools for everyone--I mean this isn't Almyra or anything, but…"

Lady Rhea's look grew more distant with each word, and Cyril's words spluttered out. "I think...I think that's a good idea," she said slowly.

The words did not match her expression in the least. "Do you?"

With a small shake, Lady Rhea's gaze refocused on Cyril. "Yes, I do." His frown must've seemed doubtful, for she ducked her head and continued without further questioning. "I was just thinking I've been letting things slip as of late. I haven't given as much consideration towards such matters as I should have." Her gaze dropped to follow her fingers circling over the rim of her teacup. A small smile still played on her lips, but a tinge of sadness polluted her serenity. "I'm not suited for being something like an archbishop. I never have been."

"That's not true!"

"It is. I'm but a temporary placeholder. If...if it was my mother, I'm sure she would have thought of your suggestion long ago."

Cyril blinked. Lady Rhea never spoke of her family. "Your mother?"

She hummed an affirmation, eyes still not quite focused on Cyril. "She was wonderful. Endlessly kind, tirelessly thoughtful--compared to her, I am too hateful to hold this position."

"What are ya talking about?" Cyril said, brows furrowing. "You're plenty nice, Lady Rhea!"

Lady Rhea let out a ringing laugh, amusement anchoring her back into focus. "You can only say that because it is easy to be kind to you. My mother...she was the kind of person who could find love within her for the worst of sinners. Even if humanity were to destroy each other, destroy the land--over and over and over again for thousands of years--she would not lose her love." The fond smile faltered. "I was never like that. After a time, I would always grow tired of it all. And then my love would disappear."

"Your mother sounds…" Cyril frowned. She sounded inhuman. To love that which destroyed what it loved--could it be called love at all? He couldn't. He couldn't love those that had taken his family from him. That was the measure of his love for them. "I think growing tired of people like that is normal. Isn't it?"

"I don't know." Lady Rhea turned away. "But all will be well. She will return, and she will bring my brothers and sisters with her. Then things will be as they should be."

Confusion pressed Cyril's frown deeper. "Your brothers and sisters?"

Lady Rhea did not say anything more. 

There was that far away look again. Eyes filled with such love for something so off in the distance that Cyril couldn't even catch its shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyril's secret skill of "invoking guilt in the people who are related to his shitty situation" claims a third victim. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you all like tea lore because realizing Almyran Pine Needles wasn't the only tea from Almyra threw me for a loop haha.


	34. One Forward

The wyvern growled from deep within her throat, hum spreading down through her chest, through her stomach, and into the ground where its reverb shook the entire aviary chamber. Marianne immediately took several steps back until she was pressed against the far wall, hands clutched at her chest and lips trembling as though the growl's vibrations themselves drove them to move. The bucket of meat that had been in her hands laid splattered in front of the fence separating the wyvern's chamber from the entryway.

From the adjacent aviary chambers, wyverns rose their heads to join in the growl.

"Hey now, she's with me!" Cyril yelled, stepping between the two to get the wyvern's attention to turn towards him. The wyvern allowed herself to be quieted under Cyril's patting, and the others quieted with her, but one eye still skirted around Cyril and fixed itself on Marianne.

"M-maybe this is too soon," Marianne stuttered.

"Don't be ridiculous! You've finished the two months of training!" Cyril turned to throw her a frown. "You gotta quit being so hesitant! You're making Aretha nervous like that. She thinks you're nervous 'cause you're up to no good."

He watched Marianne's throat bob as she attempted to swallow her fears. "I-I'm sorry. This is...it's a little intimidating."

"You just gotta approach it with the right mindset," Cyril said firmly. "Be honest. Show that you mean no harm! If you can approach a horse without spooking it, you can approach a wyvern."

"Umm...aren't wyverns known to have...eaten...people…?"

"Yeah, sure," Cyril shrugged. The Towers of Silence often employed wyverns along with vultures, especially in Khidr. It was only natural when they could make much quicker work of corpses. "But honestly dogs eat the same amount of people as wyverns, and you're not afraid of dogs."

"What?!" Whatever progress Marianne had made in approaching was reset as she jolted back, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and confusion.

"Uh…" Watching her already pale face turn paler, Cyril wanted to slap himself for forgetting that excarnation was not the preferred method of funerals in Fodlan. It was probably even used as something to point to when decrying Almyrans as barbarians. "What I meant was, it's not a bad thing a wyvern can eat ya. Two things that can kill each other are friends instead!" He forced a crooked smile. "That's nice, right?"

Marianne's doubts were not dispelled in the least by his beautiful logic. Cyril sighed and stomped over to pull her closer to the wyvern. "Don't worry," he said. "I've been taking care of Aretha since I got to the monastery. I even named her! She's the friendliest wyvern we got, and she likes me. As long as she understands we're friends--and you don't act too shady--she won't hurt ya."

Marianne breathed hard with each step, eyes never wavering from Aretha's calculating glare. 

"Ease up now," Cyril said from the corner of his month, doing his best to make up for Marianne's nerves by beaming the widest smile he could. "Look at her like you'd look at a Dorte. Calm. Easy."

She took one deep breath, and on the exhale, the wrist in Cyril's hand relaxed. Aretha let out another growl, but Cyril took care that their approach kept the same calm pace as before. He bent to pick up the fallen feed bucket, brushing the dirt from the choice cuts of beef as he did so, and placed it back into Marianne's hands. 

"I-it's nice to meet you, Aretha," Marianne said quietly. "S-sorry I spilled your snack. It should still be good."

Aretha let out a long exhale, air making Marianne's skirt and hair flutter. Marianne's hand shook, but she didn't back away.

Slowly, Cyril reached between them to open the upper half of the double hatch. Aretha didn't wait for it to swing open completely before shoving her head through, snout seeking out Marianne's face. Cyril reached out to scratch Aretha's chin, drawing a grumbling purr. "Yup, just bringing you a snack," he soothed. "It's a real fatty cut too, right Marianne?"

No words would come out of Marianne's throat, but she managed to hum an affirmation of her own as she lifted the bucket in her hands. Immediately, her attention was drawn to the meat. With a flick of her head, Aretha grabbed the steak and flung it upwards. Her neck extended and her teeth flashed--jaws snapping shut around the falling meat. 

A few chews later, her throat hummed with another growl. A pleased one this time.

The wyvern in the chamber next to her let out a whine, jealous of the attention.

"You'll get yours in a bit," Cyril said, shuffling over to calm the wyvern so that Aretha and Marianne would have some peace.

After the bribe, Aretha observed Marianne much more lazily, snout drifting without aim. A few moments passed, and Aretha lowered her head to Marianne's shoulder level.

"That means you can touch her," Cyril prompted when Marianne made no move.

"Oh!" With jerky movements, Marianne set down the bucket and gingerly raised a hand towards the wyvern's snout. Apparently too slow for the wyvern's liking. Aretha let out a huff and lifted her snout to meet Marianne's hand, moving it back and forth to give herself a petting. 

Marianne giggled and moved her hand to aid Aretha attempts. "I'm glad you liked it."

"Keep getting used to Aretha for now," Cyril said. "She's a good wyvern to start with since she gets along with most people and most of the other wyverns. If she likes ya, then you'll have an easier time with the wyverns in this aviary."

"Oh, so you all gossip, do you?" Marianne said in her talking-to-Dorte voice. Her movements grew more bold and her hands reached to scratch at Aretha's chin. "I hope you'll speak well of me."

Aretha let out a purr.

Cyril scratched at the ridge behind her horns. "Oh, they're real chatty. Wyverns always talk to each other when they gather. You offend one, you might end up offending a whole bunch without knowing it. They've got long memories too. They'll remember who treats them well, and who's arms they should bite off in the next meeting. They're still pretty solitary though, so they're wary of strangers."

"Yes, the instructor mentioned that it would be best to have two months for them to adjust to us from a distance before approaching one."

"Yup, that's the idea. My parents started bundling me up right after I was born and bringing me to the aviaries so the wyverns knew not to attack me if I wandered in there when they weren't looking."

At that Marianne tossed Cyril another worried look. "And they didn't, right? Attack you?"

"No, no, of course not," Cyril said lightly.

He decided then that it would be a bad idea to tell her that he _ had _ almost been shredded by a wyvern once.

It had been during the festival in Anadolu. His parents had taken him with them to see one of their wyverns one last time. The wyvern had been purchased by a new member of the Immortal Corps, who looked completely beaten down by the long list of instructions Cyril's mother had been rattling off.

Their wyvern had been cleaned until his scales gleamed in the afternoon light. His mother delivered her instructions with her chest puffed out, knowing that the wyvern they had raised did not lose to any of the others in the aviary where the corps had housed their wyverns during the festival.

Except one.

Their wyvern gleamed from the scrub and polish his father had applied the day before, but even that shine seemed dim compared to the bronze scales on the wyvern in the solitary chamber. She was even larger than the largest wyvern in his family stables, and every movement seemed to force his attention. One shift of her head flashed the sun bright enough that Cyril had had to squint against the light. The red tassels lining her face swayed, and Cyril's eyes followed them back and forth, hypnotized.

His father had laughed at his trance. _ Red's the color of the Heyreddin. Those tassels mark that one as a wyvern of the head of their house--the Barbarossa. _ He had snorted after that. _ Of course, I suppose no one uses 'barbarossa' now that they can call him 'king' _.

His mother had called his father over for something or the other, leaving Cyril to stare through the fence at the wyvern. Each scale was like a polished coin, and worthier than all the gold and candy in the world. He had wanted one. Just a single scale. Some had even fallen to the ground near the fence's edge.

He had wandered closer to the fence. Until then, he had never been near a wyvern that hadn't belonged to his family. Never been near a wyvern that hadn't considered him one of their own. So when the wyvern had begun to growl, Cyril had kept approaching.

His hands had slipped between the openings in the fence.

The jaws had snapped shut, and Cyril had been pulled back. He had stared at the wyverns fangs, realizing slowly that it had closed where his arm had been. Cyril had wailed then, completely missing his parents' ensuing lecture.

But even if he forgot their words, he still remembered the embarrassment, and he quickly shoved that memory back into the void. "Anyways, just be careful around new wyverns," he said aloud, "and everything will be fine."

"S-sure," Marianne said, most certainly not sure.

"Now that you've got Aretha used to you with me here, try to bond with her without me."

"Umm...isn't it too soon--"

"No, it's not. You're doing great!" He patted her back in a less painful imitation of Raphael's encouraging slaps. "I'll be right at the aviaries next door, so just call if you need anything!"

Hesitantly, Marianne nodded.

Cyril took the bucket with him. He had promised the other wyvern a treat after all, and it wouldn't do to be remembered as a liar.

Next to the feed room, he found Hilda rummaging through the supply closet. A small pile of brooms and mops had already begun to build up at her feet.

Cyril groaned. "Hilda, what are ya doing?"

"Hm?" Hilda turned briefly before returning to her rummaging. "Hey Cyril! I'm supposed to refill the troughs today, so I'm looking for the buckets in _ the usual place _. That's gotta be the storage closet, right?"

"Why would they put the feed stuff with the cleaning supplies?"

"Oh." Hilda turned fully, kicking the door closed behind her as she did so. "So...where's the buckets then?"

Cyril's face scrunched. "Really? You _ still _don't know where the buckets are? You've almost been here a year!"

Hilda fluttered her eyelashes and Cyril rolled his eyes.

"Come on," he grumbled, waving her over. "It's by the wall of the feed room. Where it always is."

"Thank you," Hilda trilled. "Saw you were helping Marianne earlier, so I didn't want to bother you. It looked so sweet! I never thought wyverns could be so cute."

"Wyverns are the best!"

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard Claude extolling their virtues plenty so I don't need you to start. Especially after Marianne said she wanted to do the wyvern handler training. Ugh." She shivered. "Heard so much it started becoming fodder for my letters to my brother."

"Your brother likes wyverns?"

"Not really, he's more of a horse guy. He's been especially obsessed with sneaking off to Almyra after some merchant from there sold him these pictures with people riding while balancing on their face in the saddle or like riding five people to a horse--I mean, people in Almyra don't do that. Right?"

"Oh, he probably bought pamphlets for a trick riding show." Paying gold for cheap tea, and gold for advertisements. The nobles in Fodlan had too much spare change.

"What?!" Hilda gave him an incredulous look. "It's real?!" She huffed. "Should I tell him? Not like I've got much else to write to him about."

"I figured you got plenty to write to him about," Cyril drawled as he tossed her the buckets she had been seeking. "Like _ I got real lazy again today _ . Or _ wow, can you believe I still don't know where they put the water buckets _?"

"Ouch." Hilda pouted from behind one of the caught buckets. "You really think so little of me?"

"That's 'cause you're the laziest person I've ever met," Cyril said flatly. "And I've met some _ lazy _ people in Fodlan."

"Oh, so only Fodlan has lazy people?"

"Dunno," he shrugged. "Never met an Almyran noble before."

Hilda clicked her tongue. "Don't let Lorenz hear you talking like that. I don't mind it, but he'd give you an earful."

"You _ don't _ mind it?"

"I mean, it's the truth," Hilda said, lifting and dropping her shoulders carelessly. "_ Harsh _, but the truth. And well...I prefer this attitude over the one you had when you first joined the class."

"Oh." The back and forth died, replaced by an awkward stretch of silence.

"I don't know if this is the _ best _ time to say this," Hilda said after awhile, "but then again, I don't know if there's ever _ really _ a good time. So." Another pause. "I wanted to apologize for all those things I said about Almyrans back then. Especially since you were kept at my uncle's house."

"Oh." Cyril stared at his feet. "That...was...a while ago."

"I guess it was. I wanted to say it sooner, but...I didn't want you to just say it was fine because you were afraid of me."

Cyril kicked at a rock.

"You don't have to think it's fine," Hilda continued. "You don't have to say anything about it, really. Just...know that I'm sorry, and I promise you, House Goneril won't take anyone else from Almyra."

"...can you really promise that?" he asked warily.

"Of course. You know me. I always get people to do what I want."

Cyril lifted his head. Light as her words were, Hilda's expression was set without any of her usual carefree air. She waited, and didn't say anything more.

"Ok," Cyril said. "I'll hold you to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marianne: Wyverns eat people.  
Cyril: Yeah, that's the best part.
> 
> Cyril gets apologies in this fic because I want that for him.


	35. The Flame in the Darkness

"Six?!" Hilda shrieked. "In the _ morning _?!"

"Hilda, we are to witness a holy ceremony tomorrow," Lorenz said through clenched teeth. "Please, give this event the proper reverence!"

"I mean, the goddess already merged with Teach," Claude drawled. "In that sense, we're receiving divine revelations from her holiness every day just by coming to class."

"This is _ exactly _ why you do not deserve to be present for such an event," Lorenz hissed. "The professor received a blessing from the goddess! And now a revelation--"

"Oh? So you _ don't _ believe them then, Lorenz?" Claude's gaze suddenly turned sharp and Lorenz withered despite his efforts. "You're buying into the story that Teach has merely been gifted the goddess' power and now must hear her words. That Teach hasn't spoken to the goddess all their life?"

"That's--it isn't that I _ don't _ have faith but...it's...it's...rather…" Lorenz's words continued to stutter along until Byleth waved their hand to clear the air.

"Claude, it's fine," Byleth said.

"No, it's not." The carefree mood fluttered away from Claude's face and something grim settled in its place. "You told Rhea _ everything _, didn't you?" Byleth nodded once, and Claude pressed onward. "And she believed you?"

"She didn't indicate otherwise."

"Then this doesn't make any sense. She knows you've spoken to the goddess. She knows--_ believes _ that you've merged with her. So then why does there need to be a ceremony for the goddess to give you a revelation?"

A heavy atmosphere fell in the room, weight pressing with particular strength on Cyril's chest. He chanced a glance at Flayn who stared at her hands, face pale. "L-lady Rhea wouldn't do something to hurt the professor," he said, words more unsteady than he would've liked.

Claude shrugged. "Never claimed she would. But, whatever is happening tomorrow, it won't be a revelation from the goddess. I'm sure of that much."

The atmosphere grew heavier, and even Byleth's mouth was weighed down into a frown.

There was a sharp bang on the desk, and heads turned to see Leonie's hand slammed against the table. "Whatever it is, we'll be there for it," she said, face drawn together in a determined scowl. "So don't worry! There's no way we'll let anything happen to you!"

Hilda's mouth twitched. "Uhh, if there's anything that's tough enough to get the professor, I don't know if we'll be able to do anything about it…"

"Don't say it like that, Hilda!" Raphael shouted. "The professor's taught us all year! That's 10 years of experience between all of us!"

"That's not how it works, Raphael," Lysithea said with a sigh. "But...I agree with the rest. After everything we've seen this year, I'm certain we can protect the professor if need be."

"I-I'll do my best too," Marianne squeaked, head ducking low when she caught Hilda's shocked gaze.

A soft, breathy sort of sigh escaped from Byleth. It sounded short--almost too short--and its lingering traces left a smile rather than wariness. 

Cyril blinked. That was a laugh, wasn't it? 

The smile stayed. It was just a tiny upturn at the corners of their mouth, but the warmth that surfaced from the usual void of their eyes almost made them unrecognizable. "This position was something that was half forced on me," they said, voice softer than Cyril could remember it being before. "I don't know if I'm suited for it or if I've been able to guide you all well, so perhaps it's selfish of me to say this, but...I'm glad I was able to be your professor." 

Byleth bent forward, so low that the tips of their bangs brushed against their desk. Lorenz made a sound of protest at the bow, but Byleth continued. "Tomorrow will be our final mission together. No matter what may pass, I'm glad you will all be there. Thank you. Thank you for staying by my side this past year. "

When they straightened, the smile stretched across their lips rivaled the brightest grins that shined so often on Raphael's face.

"Awww, Teach, how are we supposed to stay in a serious mood when you drop all of that on us?" Claude teased, levity returning to his tone.

Byleth laughed again. When rain fell on parched fields, it would never just be one drop. "With all of you there, I'm certain it'll be fine. You should be more worried about graduating. Or maybe the feast after the mission."

"Feast?!" Raphael nearly leaped from his seat.

Byleth hummed, eyes widening innocently. "Well, the last mission's success is something to celebrate, isn't it? With a house leader like Claude, of course he would organize a feast."

"Oh!" Flayn brightened. "Like the one that was held after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion? That was most enjoyable!"

"Whoa, slow down there," Claude said, holding up his hands to fend off the waves of enthusiasm. "I wasn't planning--"

Hilda booed. "You talk about this kind of stuff all year unprompted and now that we're asking for one, you're backing out?"

"Absolutely unacceptable," Lysithea humphed from beside Cyril. She even crossed her arms for good measure.

"Wasn't planning on getting the other houses involved!" Claude said, raising his voice over the rebellion of his classmates. "I mean, a last mission with Teach is a Golden Deer only sort of celebration, don't you think?"

Cheers filled the room, and under the cover of enthusiasm, Claude narrowed his eyes at Byleth who simply smiled back. 

"It's too bad though," Ignatz said. "It would've been nice to celebrate something with all three houses again."

Claude tutted. "Don't make it sound so depressing, Ignatz. We've still got the graduation celebrations, and of course l plan to pull His and Her Highnesses into _ that _. Gotta make sure everyone's got a good impression of each other before we all split off and they go rule their countries and whatnot."

"It feels weird to think about, don't you think?" Hilda said wistfully. "Edelgard's already emperor, Dimitri is going to ascend his throne by the end of the year, and _ we _ attended school with those two!"

"And soon enough I will ascend to the top of the Alliance," Lorenz said, drawing himself up. Claude and Hilda both rolled their eyes. Cyril rolled his eyes by reflex. "Certainly, the future looks to be quite different than our humble present."

"Well I hardly have anything so grand in store for my future," Hilda said. "What about you Marianne?"

"Hmm?" Marianne started at the sudden attention. "Oh, umm, I think my adoptive father is planning further studies so that I may be his successor…"

"It'll be similar for me," Lysithea said. "I don't know if I'll become Countess, but I'll be focused on Ordelia affairs for me from here."

"Whoa, really?" Leonie said. "With all the time you spend with your magic theory books, I would've thought you'd be throwing yourself into more research since that's where your interest is. I'm planning to join a mercenary troupe as an apprentice myself. Oh!" She turned to the professor. "Write me a recommendation!"

"Of course."

Cyril didn't miss the way Lysithea seemed to stiffen at Leonie's surprise. She seemed dazed, muttering a, "That's nice," even after Leonie's focus had shifted away from her to Byleth. She shook herself, and then, louder, "And what about you, Cyril? What do you plan to do?"

"Huh?" Cyril jumped in an odd imitation of Marianne. "I-I'm gonna stay at the monastery for a little longer. I'd like to graduate from the academy once I'm old enough."

"You're going to sit through another year of classes?" Claude said, giving a low whistle. "Bet we could convince the church to just give you the pass. Especially if Teach was the one asking."

"No way! I wanna do it properly!" He had only half comprehension of everything being taught after all. At the very least, he'd like to be able to sit through a class and take real notes.

"Perhaps I'll teach you again then," Byleth said. "Properly."

Cyril felt himself flush and opened his mouth to tell them that they had done a fine job of teaching when Claude threw out, "Oh! A second coming of the Golden Deer. If that's the case, Cyril should be house leader."

His embarrassment deepened, but again, someone else spoke before he could protest. "Claude! The position of house leader is meant for someone of proper status!" Lorenz hissed.

"Well I name Cyril my successor, so now he has the status of crown prince of the Golden Deer."

He heard Lysithea giggle from behind him, and that at last pushed the words out of his mouth quickly enough. "I'm not even from Leicester!"

"You can be if you want to be," Claude said with a shrug.

Cyril rolled his eyes, but this time, the evening bell interrupted his retort. "That'll be all for today," Byleth said. "Rest well."

The students shuffled out one by one after bidding the professor goodnight. Only Claude pulled a chair to their desk and settled himself beside them as they swept open a parchment over the tabletop. Both their faces had drifted back into concern, and Cyril had a feeling he wasn't meant to watch.

"Cyril! Come on!" Raphael called from across the courtyard. "It's time to get dinner!"

Cyril ran from the doorway before Claude and Byleth could lift their heads. 

It was the same sort of rowdy dinner that typically filled his evenings these days. They all talked of the coming year. Ignatz spoke with excitement of his parents' plans for him to spend time collecting experience by guarding their caravans, already thrilled by the sights he might see. Raphael told of the restaurant property that his grandfather had managed to acquire and invited them all to pay their patronage.

The same warmth as always. The same, enthusiastic, _ see you in the morning _as always.

But it was an _ as always _ that would draw to a close soon, and Cyril couldn't keep the walk back to his quarters from chilling him. It wouldn't be so bad, he told himself. Flayn would still be at the monastery. The professor too. Mercedes wanted to become a nun, so she would return soon enough. And perhaps, the next year too, he could make friends again in that new class he had asked Lady Rhea to set up.

_ Even without Claude _?

Cyril frowned. _ Could _ he without Claude pulling him into conversations? Without Claude spreading his hands wide and casting out his influence to drape over Cyril so that when others looked upon him, they saw someone worth talking to?

"Ah! Cyril! Can you help me with these?"

Cyril turned towards the voice to see Ashe waving at him, several loads of herbs from the greenhouse at his feet. "What are ya doing so late?" he asked once he reached Ashe's side.

Ashe gave a nervous laugh. "I was supposed to take these to the infirmary, but the cart broke so I have to take it all by hand. I-it would save me a few trips if you could help."

"Sure." He stooped down to gather an armful of the satchels from the pile. "You should let the monks know the cart's broken. They'll have to call in someone from town to fix it."

"I think that won't be necessary," Ashe said. With both their arms full, they fell into step, walking towards the main building of the monastery. "It's just a cracked axel. Dedue says that he can fix it in the morning once the forges open up. Sorry to trouble you with this now..."

"No, it's fine. It's nice to have someone to talk to."

"Umm, was something troubling you?"

If it wasn't for his loaded arms, Cyril would've put his face into his hands. "N-no, of course not."

"Well, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But, I'm glad I could help, even if I'm not sure what I'm helping with."

Cyril laughed. "It really wasn't anything." A pause. "I'll miss you all once the school year ends."

There was a sound of boot skidding over stone and Cyril turned to see Ashe stumbling and collecting himself. "What are ya doing _ now _," Cyril asked flatly.

"No, no! I-I was just a little surprised to hear you say that is all," Ashe said, face somewhat red. "B-but you know, it won't be like we'll stop being friends after I graduate. You're always welcome to visit me! You could meet my siblings!"

"In Gaspard?"

"In Gaspard!"

Cyril looked away, feeling a little awkward. "Umm...you know that Garegg Mach is the only place in Fodlan where unguaranteed foreigners are allowed, right?"

"Oh! That's...I could be…" Ashe trailed off. "...I suppose me being your guarantor wouldn't be enough."

"I mean, it'd be enough for me to come see you," Cyril said quickly. "I would like to. Really."

The frown remained on Ashe's face. "That isn't what I meant. The Kingdom...its home...but so much of it is…" He trailed off again, but Cyril didn't need him to list off the things he already knew.

"But I'm sure it'll change!" Ashe burst out, making Cyril jump. "I've heard Dimitri talk with Claude a lot about opening up more with Sreng once he ascends the throne. Sylvain seems excited about it too! A-and I'm sure Dimitri and Dedue will make sure that something is done about Duscur. I'll do my best with Gaspard too. So. I'm sure one day you can come visit me whenever you please."

Cyril felt rather dazed. "Y-yeah…"

"And Claude can't possibly be planning to let Leicester stay the way it is," Ashe continued, words flowing more smoothly now that he had found his conviction. "I'm sure you'll be able to go anywhere you please soon enough."

"Yeah..." Cyril repeated. Something warm was filling him, staving off the chill of the night. A small flame, lining the path to his future with a brightness he hadn't been able to imagine before. Ashe was right. Ashe _ had _ to be right. The world would open up before him, and within it, he would be able to carve out his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flame is friendship.
> 
> Cyril: I'm healing. :)  
The looming war: ..........


	36. Remains

When the first light of dawn began to shine over the peaks, the Golden Deer descended the stone steps carved into the mountainside. Mist swirled at their feet like silvery pools of water, and the winter wind cut as deeply as if they were soaked in a frozen lake. The stone was worn smooth, moss already half-finished with its reclamation from the work of human hands.

Cyril often flew, but now, overlooking the narrow path where they had to pass single-file, the precipice looked as though it were beckoning him over the edge and he felt his stomach lurch. Lady Rhea took the lead, steps sure and steady as if she had walked the path thousands of times. Flayn and Seteth followed her, steps nearly as even. The professor and Claude were close behind, assured but careful nonetheless. The rest of them clung to the cliffside.

The steps followed the curve of the mountain into a crevice, and--to the relief of the students--relatively flat ground. Compared to the open sky that wanted to swallow them whole with a single slip, the towering walls of the crevice felt like a comforting embrace.

A cavern laid at the end of the crevice. A chamber arched so high the torchlights could not touch its ceiling. At the back wall, statues of four saints were hewn directly into the rockface. They were paired and divided by an entryway deeper into the cavern. Lady Rhea nodded and gestured them in.

The innermost chamber was perfectly square, walls sanded and corners sharply defined. At its center, a large ring was carved into the floor. Lady Rhea gestured again, this time towards the center of the ring.

"Is this the Holy Tomb?" Leonie asked as she shuffled inside the ring.

"No," Claude replied instantly. They all turned to him, but he didn't elaborate. Seteth narrowed his eyes, and Claude smiled back.

Lady Rhea entered last, stopping by the entryway. Cyril squinted. The torch flame flickered, and he realized that there was something there. It wasn't obvious until the light reflected in the right way, but a glass panel was mounted to the wall. Lady Rhea ran a finger along its surface. Light trailed along behind her finger like paint trailing after a brush, revealing the spiral she had drawn into it.

Cyril frowned. It looked familiar.

Before he had time to contemplate deeper, a blue glow appeared near his feet, color so unlike the flames that lit the room. He looked down to see a symbol lighting up within the ring's border. Then another appeared beside it.

"Macuil," Lysithea muttered as another lit up. "Seiros...Dominic...these are Crests!"

Lady Rhea stepped into the ring herself and nodded. "Yes, that is correct." 

One by one, the Crests began to glow until the symbols were all alight. There was a rumble as the Crested ring turned, and then, the floor beneath their feet began to descend.

He heard gasps all around him. His mind clamored with confusion as fervently as the Golden Deer clamored aloud. In the stuttering start stop of words and spluttering attempts at completed thoughts, the ones who were calm were all the starker.

Lady Rhea. Seteth. Flayn.

Cyril's hands fisted into his waistcloth.

"I gotta ask," Claude said, voice too tight to be as casual as he was trying to seem. "What's powering this thing anyways? When I came here before, I couldn't get the room moving at all."

Seteth rounded on him immediately. His mouth was drawn back in a snarl, and for the first time, Cyril noticed that Seteth's canines were rather long and sharp. "You _ did _ trespass! This place is not for students--"

"Seteth," Lady Rhea said over him. "Let it be. All will be well."

Seteth did not let it be. He strode over to Lady Rhea, face still pinched with his earlier irritation. His gestures were sweeping, but his voice was surprisingly inaudible. All Cyril could see was Lady Rhea shaking her head, and Seteth dropping his head into his hand.

The platform came to a stop with another jolt. Silence fell again as if all the people it contained came to a stop as well. Only Lady Rhea was unaffected. 

They were in a room without a single flame, and yet a blue green light flooded Cyril's vision, casting the Golden Deer in a sickly pallor. Lady Rhea strode out the exit with an ease that no one else was feeling. After a moment, they followed her. He heard the soft gasps of awe from Ignatz, but even prepared, Cyril's breath caught in his throat as he stepped through the archway. 

It was as though they had entered the hollow of the mountain, its stone heart carved out and a temple hewn in its place. The sounds of their footsteps echoed in ever decreasing hiccups as it dissipated upwards, like the weakening skips of a stone over water. Everything was etched from the mountain. The vine-like moldings on the wall, the ornate pillars supporting nothing, even the caskets that lined the chamber--it was as though they had grown from the mountain, a strange petrified forest where remnants of ancient times grew in the place of trees. 

Cyril thought of the tombs of the old kings that he had seen in Khidr. Tombs from before the times of the Towers of Silence. From the age when kings sought immortality by carving their resting places into towering stones and cliff sides where their imprints would tell those who came long after _ I was here _. And so they did, even after thousands of years.

And so this tomb did. Age had seeped into every carving, every statue--consecrated it into something beyond the comprehension of those who had lived but a fraction of its existence. And in that pull of awe, he could almost believe that the goddess had shown her hand.

They all stepped lightly, even Claude. His ears rung from the silence.

Lady Rhea's fingers brushed against the caskets as they passed, a fond smile on her lips as she lingered at them. Seteth's expression at last softened. He bowed his head and pulled Flayn closer.

Lady Rhea paused at the foot of steps that went up and up, towards the bright light that was the source of the chamber's verdant glow. "The goddess who created this world, and her children are laid to rest here. It is said that she once sat upon this very throne." 

She took a shuddering breath before turning to face them. "Professor, tell me," she asked. She pleaded. "Do you recognize that throne?"

Byleth turned their gaze upwards to the top of the steps, and Cyril's gaze followed theirs. 

A throne of stone rested at the top, made all the more imposing by the towering height of its back. The same spiral that Lady Rhea had drawn on the panel was etched into the stone back.

Cyril felt his heart skip a beat.

It was familiar, and he knew where he had seen it. 

The bow, the mask, the throne.

Even if a child remembered nothing else from the myths, they would remember those.

Every Founding Festival play would have it as the centerpiece of their stage: the stone throne, high backed and marked with the Nabatean spiral. Arash would pray at its feet, and from atop it, Sepandarmaz would grant him her bow. 

And here it was. No mere stage prop, but something sanctified.

Cyril glanced at Claude. A wild grin split Claude's face. A thousand questions spun behind the frantic shine of his eyes, but even without the answers, the smile was already triumphant.

"Yes, I do."

Cyril's attention snapped to Byleth. He caught Claude mirroring his movement, grin replaced with surprise. 

Lady Rhea let out a breath between a laugh and a sob. Cyril ripped his gaze from Byleth's confused face to look at Lady Rhea. 

Her hands were clasped together and she looked upon the professor with all the reverence of a prayer. Her quivering smile, oscillating between pure joy and a desperation he could not understand, spread so wide it peeked out from behind her hands. Lady Rhea was looking right at Byleth, and yet he felt like she was looking far far away. "So long," she said hoarsely. "_So_ _long_ I have waited for this day. We have _all_ waited for this day. Soon...soon...everyone will..." She laughed again, shoulders shaking and head bowed.

Was this all it took to make her so happy? Would she be happy if he told her he recognized the throne too?

"Rhea…" Seteth put a hand on her shoulder, and she stilled under his touch.

Her shoulder rose once and drooped again. When she raised her head, Lady Rhea's expression was calm. "Sit upon the throne, professor. I have no doubt that you will receive a revelation from the goddess."

The professor nodded once.

"Teach, wait--"

"Do _ not _ interfere," Lady Rhea hissed. Cyril's heart thudded at how quickly she had turned.

Claude did not say anything more, but he did not step away from the professor either, instead turning to regard Lady Rhea coolly. Behind him, Leonie shook herself and prepared to step closer as well. Byleth shook their head. "It'll be fine. Sothis wouldn't hurt me."

Claude sighed, but stepped back until he was beside Leonie. Byleth nodded once more and began to climb the steps to the throne.

Cyril was half expecting for the bright light shining upon the throne to thrum and spread, or for the throne's etchings to begin glowing, or for the goddess' voice to fill the chamber--

But when the professor sat upon the throne, nothing happened. 

Long moments passed, and Byleth shook their head. He heard Lady Rhea draw a sharp breath. 

"_ Why _?" she cried, barely holding back the wail that wanted to slip through her teeth. "What could be missing?!"

Footsteps echoed behind them. Cyril spun around. A squadron of soldiers in red and black were brandishing their swords and spears. Soldiers wearing Imperial colors. They all followed closely behind a man striding forward with a pompous air and another in full armor and--

Cyril felt himself grow cold. He had seen that mask before--white like a ghost and thin slits for eyes like the holes that would appear under the eyelids of a corpse that had had their eyes eaten by maggots. He had seen it just once, standing over Flayn's prone body. Commanding the Death Knight.

"The Flame Emperor," Claude said coldly. "So. You were working with the Imperial Army all along."

The man without a mask stepped forward, face turning ugly as it crumpled with indignation. "How dare you ignore me--" 

"What's the Flame Emperor doing with that angry guy?" Hilda asked.

"--everything in the Holy Tomb is now ours!" the angry guy spat out before anyone else could interrupt. 

Leonie grimaced with disgust. "Tomb robbing?"

"I've heard there's quite a treasure in the Holy Tombs," Claude said. "Let me guess: crest stones."

The Flame Emperor gave a short laugh. "For a fool, you catch on rather quickly. To let such power lay unused would be a waste."

"Oh?" Claude narrowed his eyes. "You know of me enough to think me a fool, do you? What exactly are you planning to do with those crest stones?"

"Silence. I have no need to answer to the likes of you. Stand down, or your lives are forfeit."

"Insolence!" Lady Rhea roared. The force of it rang throughout the chamber, filling it with an impossible chorus of echoes that strengthened each other rather than dissipate. Cyril didn't dare turn back when the enemy was before him, but he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck raise. "You will pay for your sin of trampling upon this holy resting place!"

"The crest stones are in the caskets!" the man beside the Flame Emperor shouted. With a wave of his hand, the soldiers dispersed throughout the tomb. "Open them up!"

"Stop them!" Lady Rhea cried, anger replaced with fear. 

"Claude!" Cyril felt Byleth rush past him. "Take Hilda, Ignatz, Lysithea, Cyril, and Flayn down the left. Everyone else, follow me!"

"You heard them," Claude said, motioning the called names over. "Let's go. Hilda, shield up front. Ignatz, Cyril, volley on the nearest mages. Lysithea, the heavy armor by the second casket. Flayn, be ready be back up Hilda."

"Ugh!" Hilda grimaced but darted forward, shield raised with her left and Freikugel pulsing in her right. The grim glow of the axe drew the attention of soldiers, too distracted by the approaching Relic Weapon to think of much else besides stopping its wielder's approach. 

Cyril pulled back his bowstring. The shock had passed. All that was left was after the spark was the flame of anger. Flayn. Remire. The demonic beasts.

Each thought drove another arrow into its mark. He would never forgive them. His heart pulsed with the steady beat of a flame's flicker, and the arrows flew true.

The mages cried as Ignatz and Cyril's arrows found their marks, but before they could react to the new targets, Claude picked off two more, and then Hilda was already upon them with the axe they so feared. A single swing scattered them from the casket. One called for backup, but they turned to see swarms of black moths streaming from inside the armor of the Fortress Knight that had fallen behind them.

With the archers engaging the mages, the swordsman ran forward to reinforce the crumbling line, allowing the armored knights behind them to continue breaking the caskets with their axes. "A little help! Ugh!" Hilda yelped as a sword found its mark at her side, flinch making Freikugel sail over the Imperial swordsman's head. White magic quickly surrounded her, but that only allowed Hilda to better retreat from the encroaching soldiers.

"Ignatz, Cyril, keep this distance," Claude said, voice rushing to bark the orders as his feet tapped in anticipation. "Keep aiming for the mages. Lysithea, start picking off anyone who might try to reinforce, or anyone running away with a crest stone. Flayn, cover me and Hilda." With that, he dashed forward, firing another arrow into the neck of one of the swordsmen around Hilda as he did so.

Another swordsman saw Claude and eagerly engaged with what he thought would be the easier target. The swordsman ran forward, but Claude didn't seem to care to keep his distance, even when a silver sword arced towards him. In a blink, Claude had rolled under the swing, bringing him to the swordsman feet. As he unfurled and stood, Claude's hand flew out, once, twice, thrice and blood spurted from the swordsman's knee, stomach, and neck. Before the swordsman could react, Claude kicked him backwards, sending him wheeling towards the archers behind him. Ignatz narrowed his eyes and with a whistle, his arrow pierced the swordsman between his eyes.

Without bothering to confirm the swordsman's death, Claude spun the arrow in his hand around and in one smooth movement, fired at one of the two remaining swordsmen flanking Hilda.

"Oh, thank the _ goddess _," Hilda said happily, swinging Freikugel into the remaining swordsman.

"Move forward!" Claude shouted. He and Hilda ran ahead, and the rest of them scrambled to follow.

The second row of tombs had already been smashed open. A few armored knights moved to block their way, but the lightly armored footsoldier was already retreating with the crest stone in hand.

"NO!" Cyril flinched at Flayn's shrill cry. "Don't take them away!"

She threw her hands forward and white light flashed out, shooting past the armored knights and onto the back of the footsoldier. The footsoldier stumbled but continued to run. Ignatz stopped running and took stance to shoot, but the armor knights closed the gap and his arrow clanked off their shields.

"Lysithea!" Claude shouted as he dodged backwards from the stroke of their axes.

"Out of the way!" Miasma gathered at Lysithea's fingertips and with a flick of her hand, it splattered against the armor and seeped through like water through soil. The armored knight stumbled, and in that moment of distraction, Cyril darted forward, clambering over the fallen casket.

The footsoldier had gained distance. Cyril kept running and drew his bow.

Flayn. Remire. Demonic beasts.

Like a mantra, they steadied his hand, and his arrow flew into the footsoldier's back. The footsoldier fell face forward into the stone floor and Cyril quickly reached him. The crest stone had fallen and Cyril bent to retrieve it.

It wasn't as stone-like as he expected. Perhaps it was from the heat of the footsoldier, but the crest stone felt warm in Cyril's hand. An odd pattern criss crossed over the surface of the stone, texture like hardened sinew.

"Cyril!"

Without thinking, Cyril threw himself to the left, and from beside him the stone floor cracked from the force of the axe being driven into it. The knight holding the axe turned his head, and Cyril grasped uselessly for his bow. There was another cry and then dark spikes pierced through the knight's armor, felling them with a clatter. From behind them, Claude suddenly appeared, leaping over the corpse to kneel by Cyril.

"Don't move ahead like that!" Claude hissed as he hauled Cyril back to his feet.

"I got the crest stone," Cyril said numbly.

"Yeah, well they have numbers." Suddenly, he turned and shot another arrow up towards the stairwell leading to the exit. A mage that had been pointing at them crumpled to the floor, magic dying in their hands. "Too many. Damn it...we can't get all of them back." Louder, Claude called, "Let's go! Keep closer together!"

They continued to rush forward, and Cyril tried to ignore the gaping holes in the collapsed tombs lining their path. They would get the crest stones back. His pulse thudded in his ears, and in his pocket, he thought he could feel the crest stone pulse along.

They converged with Byleth and the remaining students below the platform leading to the exit. Seteth and Lady Rhea followed close behind, running up the center of the tomb. Seteth's lance was bloody, and Cyril did a double take at the blood dripping from Lady Rhea's clenched fists.

White heat seared his arm, at first too overwhelming to feel, and then his senses adjusted themselves. Cyril screamed. The smell of burning flesh hit his nose next. He turned his head away, unwilling to look at his arm. Instead, he caught sight of Ignatz shooting a mage. Sideways. Or maybe he was the one sideways. Cyril shuddered, trying to sink deeper into the cool touch of the stone floor. Suddenly, Flayn filled his blurring vision.

"Breathe, breathe. It's alright. Breathe," she said in short gasps that had him wondering if she was telling him or reminding herself.

A more comforting warmth flooded his arm, pushing away the boiling heat. Each breath became less painful, and slowly his vision cleared.

Lysithea had teleported Claude directly overhead, up thirty feet to the platform's top. Claude loosed arrows in rapid succession. They all found their mark in the unarmored mages, but one was cut from the air by the Flame Emperor's axe when it flew towards their mask.

Claude balanced on his haunches on the platform's bannister. "Come on," he said with false brightness. "Enlighten me. What are you doing with the crest stones? What'd you need Flayn's blood for?"

"Silence!" An axe swung down, destroying the bannister where Claude had been. Cyril jolted up, trying to see where Claude had disappeared to.

"Is that mask to blame for your curtness?" It was Claude's voice. Cyril barely allowed himself time for relief before he stood and ran after the Golden Deer who were already ascending the stairwell to the left. "Then let me tear it off and ask again." Metal clattered against metal, and Cyril ran faster.

The Golden Deer were engaging the remaining soldiers stationed at the stairwell. Hilda acted as the bulwark, Ignatz and Lysithea picked off enemies in front of them, and Cyril took aim at those who were attacking from a distance. Try as he might, he couldn't stop his gaze from flickering every so often back to Claude and the Flame Emperor.

Claude had abandoned his bow for a small throwing axe. He flitted about the Flame Emperor's strikes, but although the Flame Emperor was able to draw thin trails of blood when Claude was too slow, Claude's small axe could not match the reach of their Silver axe. Not unless it was thrown, but one miss and he would be left defenseless.

From the opposite stairwell, several soldiers were thrown back and a bonelike whip shot forward. The Flame Emperor ducked, but the strike grazed their armor, slicing through it as though it were paper. The tip of the whip wrapped about the banister as it retracted, and Byleth shot towards them.

"You…" The Flame Emperor turned to the professor. "You are the one person I did not wish to make an enemy of…"

"If I'm your only regret after everything that you've done," Byleth said, snapping the whip back into a sword with a flick, "then save your breath."

Byleth charged forward, and between them and Claude, the Flame Emperor was pushed back. With one last cry, Hilda broke through the remaining Imperial soldiers, and the path was open for them.

As if sensing this, the Flame Emperor broke from Claude and Byleth, retreating towards the exit. The Sword of the Creator was already in the middle of retracting. Instead, Claude threw his axe. It spun through the air. The Flame Emperor jolted away, but not far enough. The throwing axe clattered against their helmet and buried itself in the wall behind them.

The face plate clattered to the floor at their feet.

And when the Flame Emperor lifted their head, it was Edelgard's cool glare that regarded them.

Byleth froze. Claude's stance sagged from the battle position he had held. "Edelgard…?"

"So, this is it." She sighed, head bowing. Just for a moment. The sigh finished, and her gaze was steel.

"You!" Lady Rhea was wide eyed, but her fury was too great to let the surprise freeze her. "To think...a descendant of House Hresvelg would be the one to betray the holy church." Her chin lifted, hard glare glowering down upon Edelgard. The blood dripped from Lady Rhea's knuckles onto the stone floor, a steady echo in the silence. "Professor. Kill her."

Byleth blinked, turning to Lady Rhea.

Claude didn't take his eyes from Edelgard. "No, there's questions--"

"Kill her!" Lady Rhea screamed. "Such a rebellious heart cannot keep beating."

Edelgard let out a laugh. "I've already fulfilled my objective. Goodbye, professor. The next time we meet will be on the battlefield."

A magic circle appeared at her feet, and in a flash of purple light, Edelgard disappeared.

Lady Rhea screamed. A long wail multiplying into a chorus in the chamber. Pain, anger--splitting, echoing, resounding. Cyril took a step back. "Fleeing won't save you!" she cried, voice cracking from the force scratching at her throat. "I will hunt you until you have been captured and punished! You have defiled these sacred grounds, stolen that which is most precious to my brethren, and that crime will _ never _ be ERASED!"

Seteth pushed his way past the Golden Deer, and Flayn followed close behind him. Lady Rhea continued to scream, curses only heard and repeated by the echoes. "Even if you burn in the eternal flames!" 

"Rhea--"

"Even if you spill every drop of your blood into the goddess' soil!"

"Rhea!" Seteth's hands shook at Lady Rhea's shoulders. Flayn grasped her hand. "Stop. She's already gone."

Lady Rhea's mouth hung open, but no sound left it.

"We need to think about what is to come," Seteth said. "She will doubtlessly return. We need to be clear headed."

Lady Rhea's head drooped, and the flower tucked in her hair fluttered to the ground. Cyril swallowed.

It was only Lady Rhea. She wouldn't hurt him.

He repeated those words and let their meaning carry his feet towards her. His hands fumbled in his pockets for the crest stone, and rigidly, to stop the shaking, he held it up towards her. "W-we couldn't get all of them back," he stuttered, cursing inwardly at his shaking all the while. "B-but there's s-still some here."

Slowly, like she was pulling herself against a river's waters, Lady Rhea turned her gaze to the crest stone in his hands. Her fingers took the stone and she curled against it. "Yes...some yet remain." She took a shaking breath. "Come, everyone. Let us return and discuss our next course of action."

They filed out. Yet, even as the device lifted them back up to the surface, Cyril felt like he was sinking into a pit.

The Empire would stand with them against the people who created the demonic beasts? The three countries would be united against this evil?

It was a shallow hope now. The waters of it receding from the beach, gathering into a wave that would sweep him back into it all. Into war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile in the Blue Lions route:
> 
> Dimitri: I WILL RIP HER HEAD OFF.
> 
> Rhea: Yes! Yes! I need this energy from ALL OF YOU!
> 
> Regarding Edelgard saying she wants to use the crest stones, I know in the English translation she called it a poison and she wanted to destroy them or whatever, but that never really made much sense because Claude would NOT stop asking her what she was planning to do with them. And crest stoned demonic beasts appear from hereafter. So I checked another language, and in that translation, it was pretty clear that Edelgard was saying that it would be a waste to not use the crest stones, which would make Claude's constant questions make more sense. So, I'm going with that instead.
> 
> If you're wondering how much Cyril remembers about the King Arash myths, you can kind of think of it like the King Arthur myths for kids that grew up in the anglosphere. Did I know every myth about the Knights of the Round Table? No. But even I knew there was a kid named Arthur who pulled a sword from a rock through cultural osmosis. So Cyril's kind of like that. He doesn't know the full myths, but he does know the most popular bits that were repeated frequently to children.
> 
> And yes, Rhea beat in Imperial soldiers' faces with her bare hands because she did not think to bring a sword to the tomb. And also because I think the fact that she's good at incredible violence with her fists is kind of cool.
> 
> Finally, if you're curious about what I'm trying to describe with crevice to the entrance of the Holy Tomb, look up the Siq in Petra. Nabataen architecture is cooler in real life than in game tbh.


	37. Departure

"Cart seven still needs an axle!"

"Someone get me more feed for horse team twelve!"

"Has anyone seen a blue leather trunk?!"

"Here!" Cyril shouted, waving his arms to grab the monk's attention.

"Oh good," the monk said in relief as she hurried over. "It hasn't been lost. You grab that end and I'll take the other."

Cyril lifted the trunk with a grunt and followed the monk in an awkward waddle. His arms ached, his back ached, his feet ached--what part of him didn't complain with each movement? But that was fine. There was too much to do before the evacuation of Garreg Mach was complete.

Two weeks. Shamir had returned with grim news that that was all they had before the main force of the Imperial Army would reach Garreg Mach. Word from the Alliance was even less heartening. The Great Bridge of Myrddin was crossed without resistance--the Imperial's numbers were too great, and the local Alliance lord too unprepared. They would always be too unprepared, Cyril thought. Too slow. Even now, as Alliance territory was being trampled under Imperial boots, he had heard enough to know that the lords were too entrapped in a cycle of bickering to rally a force strong enough to repel the Imperial army before it reached the monastery.

Edelgard's proclamation had sent both the Alliance and the Kingdom into an uproar. The church was responsible for the ills that befell Fodlan. The church had divided them and propped up nations with the influence of Crests. It was the duty of the true nation--the Adrestian Empire--to unite them away from the corrupted false kings and purge the land of the church's influence. It was only under Adrestia that true peace could prevail; that true progress could be made.

Cyril had wanted to laugh when Claude read her manifesto aloud. Of course. Land. Power. Control. Boil it down, strip it of the veneer justice, and what was it that any king wanted? 

_ For the glory of our nation, and so that all those too unfortunate may one day partake in its glory. _

Over one hundred years ago, King Kambujiya had said those words before launching his military campaigns, all in hopes that he would be remembered as Kambujiya the Great. Kambujiya the Magnificent. _ The people of Fodlan are backwards and pitiful _ , he had said, _ this is for their own good. _The lives lost were to a worthy cause: to save other nations from themselves; to elevate his name into the echelon of the highest kings.

One hundred years later, and the words were uttered over and over again still. _ For the glory of our nation _ , soldiers liked to repeat as they raised their toasts to the dead. _ Look--look at this glory! _Hands would flail about the deadened lands and trodden fields. The night would fill with laughter, and Cyril's was among them. Laugh and pray that Kambujiya the Fool down in hell would feel it as though it were lashes against his skin.

It was said that the clan of Kambujiya the Fool would never recover from the stain his legacy left upon their chain of lineage. So drunk he was on his delusions of grandeur that he launched his campaigns against multiple countries at once, and without a united front, the individual campaigns became pits that the provinces could no longer crawl out of. One man's arrogance was enough to begin a hundred year long parade of death unseen by Almyra since the days of the cursed lands. Villages uprooted, fields left to rot, and bodies piled so high they spilled from the Towers of Silence.

And now, villages were being uprooted again, all for the unshaking will of an Emperor who believed so ardently that she knew what was better for the lives she was breaking apart. She had heard him that day--he was certain of that. Edelgard had heard him beg for peace, and like every king and noble before her, had answered by choosing that which would hurt him most.

There'd be nothing left for him if the monastery fell. But that, he supposed, was nothing new. Even before his birth, lines of kings had waved their hands and each decision drove him closer and closer to the brink. At the very least, he could fight to the last.

Cyril ground his teeth. From frustration. From that persistent ache in his shoulder.

At least one of them was relieved when he dropped the trunk next to one of the carts. The monk was called over somewhere else the instant the trunk hit the dirt, leaving Cyril alone to look around for his next task.

He felt a tug at his tunic.

It was one of the siblings from Remire. The sister, for once alone and without her brother. Her mouth was moving, but Cyril couldn't hear the words.

He leaned closer until his ear was almost level with her mouth. "Sorry, what are ya saying?"

"Thank you for finding our things."

Cyril suppressed a shudder. It wasn't the sort of voice he expected to come from a young child at all. Her voice was as rough as pine tree bark, and as quiet and wispy as the winds that blew through their needles. He straightened, keeping his face the same as before. "This you and your brother's trunk?"

The girl nodded enthusiastically and clambered to sit on the blue trunk as if to claim it as her throne. Her feet swung and her mouth moved, but her quiet words were inaudible.

"Ugh, sorry Mila, I couldn't find--" In contrast, her brother's voice was extremely loud. Shockingly so after Cyril had spent the last few moments trying to hear her. "Ah!" The boy rushed over to the trunk, turning about it this way and that. "You found it!"

Mila pointed a finger towards Cyril and the boy followed it. "You again…"

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Cyril said.

"Nothing!" At least he had enough decency left to look somewhat ashamed. "I just meant...you keep helping us out. It's got everything we have in it. And one of the monks from the monastery gave it to us, so I'd feel bad losing a gift."

Mila frowned and tugged at her brother's sleeve. Without missing a beat, he leaned his ear close. "Huh?" The boy straightened. "Sorry, did she already tell you all that?"

Now it was Cyril who felt somewhat ashamed. He couldn't think of anything else to say except, "Um."

Mila pouted but the boy ruffled her hair and laughed. "Come on, Mila. You know you're real quiet now."

"Was she not before?"

The boy rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Oh...well...there was a big fire in Remire and lots of smoke...so…you know how it is when you breath in too much of it."

Cyril did, even if it wasn't from Remire. That he did only made the uncomfortable pit he had dug himself into during this conversation ever deeper. The boy failed to find any rope of words to pull him from it either, so instead, the silence stretched until the monks called for the gathered people to board the carts.

"Knew I'd get kicked outta here eventually," the boy said bitterly.

"It's not like the church wanted to kick ya out," Cyril said. "And you're all going to the eastern church, aren't ya?"

With the western church still reeling from its barely ended insurrection and Dimitri concerned with little else besides Edelgard, Claude had offered up the eastern church as a place to move the refugees and civilians currently in the monastery. Compared to the central and western churches, the eastern church lacked influence and was largely under the control of the Alliance, which made Claude's promise of House Riegan's support as good as an offer from the eastern church itself.

"Wasn't talking about the church," the boy continued, eyes turned to the rush of bodies onto carts. "It was too good to last. You know, the old Emperor never offered to help us. Just left us for the church to pick up. And now the new one wants to take our place here too. If she's got the gold for war, wish she'd do something for us instead." His lip curled mirthlessly. "I'll bet we're gonna have to flee the eastern church too once she attacks the Alliance. Just run and run forever, and she doesn't even know she's chasing us."

"It's always like that with kings."

The boy threw Cyril a flat look. "You really don't have anything nicer to say?"

"If I did, would I be here?"

His look turned appraising, and the boy shook his head. "No, I guess not."

"Oi, I said it's time to leave!" Cyril turned to see a monk stomp over and shoo Mila off the trunk. With a grunt, he tossed it onto the back of the cart beside them. "Hurry up and get in the carts!" he shouted once again before running off to herd more stragglers.

Mila rushed forward to give Cyril's waist a hug. Even if he couldn't hear it, he could feel her mumble a goodbye. "Bye," he muttered, patting her head.

"Come on, Mila." The boy pulled her to him. "Are you going to the eastern church too?" Cyril shook his head and the boy frowned. "Then...may the Goddess watch over you and bless you with her protection."

"You know I'm not from Fodlan, right?"

The boy shrugged. "But you are _ in _ Fodlan. The Goddess isn't so picky."

"Um, well…" Cyril hesitated. It was only right to offer a prayer for a prayer, and he had already neglected to do so the previous time. "May the verdant winds guide you to a land of summer."

The boy let out a short laugh as he clambered onto the cart's back and pulled his sister up beside him. "I guess yours is better, huh? Since even I can feel the wind. But I'll be praying for you! I'm gonna get good at it like my mom was, so I'm sure you'll be ok."

Hooves clattered against the dirt. Wooden wheels creaked as they turned.

And slowly, the carts began to move.

"Ask around for _ Jan Bauer _ if you ever go to the Eastern Church, ok?!" the boy shouted. "I'll be seeing you, Cyril!"

Cyril's throat stung, and no words could escape. He wasn't sure if that mattered. There were so many shouting out their parting words over the din of horseshoes and clattering wood; the departure was more raucous than the feast after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. Cyril could only frantically wave his hands, fanning wide up over his head and down his sides, hoping that Jan and Mila could at least see that.

He watched the caravan travel down the dirt road, clumped together as it passed through the now emptied town around Garreg Mach. When night fell, the only light would be at the monastery. The twinkling windows and doorways that he liked to admire on his way back from the market would no longer have people to light them.

His energy had left with the caravan. He was too tired to think about finding more work to do. Tired enough to collapse in bed and sleep a dreamless sleep. Which was what he wanted. Nothing would be crueler than dreaming of a normal day and waking up to the present.

As he made his way back to his room, the monastery continued to bustle with activity. Blacksmiths preparing weapons, monks running supply lines, and carpenters fortifying the monastery. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, and still the bustle did not slow, desperate as they were for each remaining second of sunlight.

"--letter from Edelgard."

Cyril froze at that name. It was Petra's voice, just beyond the gate on the other side of the courtyard. From its breathy quality, he knew she was trying to be quiet, but her anxiety made it heard. He doubled back to peek his head beyond the gates. Petra was seated on a bench, her bent back to him--head bowed and hands grasping her elbows. Claude sat across from her, face slowly shifting from sympathy to suspicion.

"What did she say?" he asked.

"That she wishes to see me choose my own path and that she is waiting to see it. See whether or not I will be a friend to the Empire. Whether or not Brigid will be a friend to the Empire." There was a pause as she breathed in and out heavily. "She is saying...that she has sent messengers to Brigid. For peace."

There was no trace of the relaxed air that even recently, Claude maintained in front of the Golden Deer. A hard glint was in his eyes--cold as ice. "And? _ Is _ it for peace?"

Another deep breath. "Edelgard...Edelgard has always been kind to me. I respect her. I want to be--to have trust in her. But…" A shudder ran through Petra and her grip on her elbows tightened. It broke through the rigid control she had held herself to, and her words came out in a rush. "But she still hasn't let me go! She hasn't let _ Brigid _ go! I want to have trust in Edelgard. But I am not knowing _ who _ those messengers may be. I am not knowing what I must do so that Brigid is not an enemy. I am not knowing what will happen to Brigid if it _ is _ an enemy!"

White filled Cyril's vision, but Claude kept his stoney calm. "Can you contact your grandfather?"

Petra shook her head rapidly. "No. House Hresvelg is my guarantor. All messages I am sending or receiving are sent to them firstly. Any attempts to leave Fodlan waits for their approval. And I...I am not knowing what Edelgard will see as aggression." Petra's bowed head bent lower, her shoulders crumpling as she folded into herself. "Brigid has not recovered from the previous war with the Empire. I cannot allow it to be hurt any further. I do not wish for it to be the enemy of the Kingdom or the Alliance. But...the ones in Brigid are the Empire. If Brigid is an enemy--" Her voice cracked. "--I want to believe Edelgard would not do anything. I want to believe her kindness. But after all that has happened, I am wondering...I am wondering if any of the Edelgard I knew was real."

Claude let out a bitter laugh. "Who knows." A pause. "Would Brigid be able to stand against the Empire, even for a short while?"

"If the Empire is fighting both Kingdom and Alliance, it will have less attention for Brigid. But, much of Brigid's power belongs to those sent by the Empire. Imperial soldiers are already in Brigid. As guards against Dagda for now, but it can be turned against Brigid if we...it would be another war. Maybe that is the best choice. To fight for our freedom. But...I am not knowing the condition of Brigid. Of its readiness for war." 

"...if you were to join the Empire, would Brigid join as well?"

"If Edelgard is demanding that, then Brigid would be pulled into war," Petra said, voice more steady than before. "If a war is necessary for Brigid, I would choose a war for our freedom. If I join the Empire, Brigid must be left alone."

"You've thought through this path pretty far."

"I am thinking of all paths."

"But, you're settling on a decision now, aren't you?"

Petra stiffened. "The Empire is like...a knife at Brigid's neck. Brigid is behind Empire territory. Receiving aid from the Kingdom or Alliance is impossible. I am thinking...that for the present, it is better to make the knife lower, even if I do not know what may be happening after. Over all things, I do not wish for my people to die for Fodlan's conflicts."

Claude's eyes shuttered close as if to keep out a storm. He sighed, one deep breath passed through him like a heavy wind. When Claude opened his eyes again, he looked resigned. "I can't promise anything about Edelgard, but I can promise you that no matter what you choose to do, the Alliance will not vassal Brigid. And I'll convince Dimitri to do the same for the Kingdom."

Slowly, Petra raised her head to look at Claude. "You...are realizing what path I will take if you promise that? If I join Edelgard--if I prove myself to her--I can negotiate Brigid's freedom. If the Empire falls, then Brigid is still freed."

"Yes. But you've already made your choice, haven't you? I don't plan to hold a nation hostage over it."

For a long moment, Petra was silent. The seconds passed, and tick by tick the thing that weighed her down lifted from her shoulders. When she spoke again, her voice was even and calm, with only a touch of sadness marring the surface. "It is a peace gained by hurting a friend. I am not knowing if it is right, but I have great gratitude that it is a choice." 

"Don't get me wrong, I'd prefer you to be on my side if possible." Claude smiled wryly. "But...I guess that would require Edelgard pushing Brigid harder, so I probably shouldn't be hoping for that."

Petra let out a soft laugh. "No. We should not be hoping for that." She leaned forward, arms slipping around Claude's neck to pull him into an embrace. Claude's eyes widened for a second before he relaxed into it. "You are a good friend, Claude. Thank you." Her embrace tightened. "I am sorry. And goodbye." In one movement--in one clean break--she pulled back, stood, and stepped away.

Cyril darted back around the corner of the gate, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid Petra's detection. Her eyes caught his as she went through the gate. "Cyril…"

Two waves crashed against each other. Hate that she chose to be an enemy. Admiration that she was someone who would not sacrifice her people. The next time they met, she might try to kill him. To kill Lady Rhea. But in return, another nation would be spared from war and all the rot it brought. So Cyril swallowed back the anger. "Good luck, Petra."

What composure she had managed to throw on slipped, and a tremble passed over her face. "Thank you. May you have luck as well."

Cyril watched her retreat for the last time as an ally. The night was falling, and he had no doubt that Petra would take the chance to slip away from the monastery. "Eavesdropping?" he heard Claude say.

"Ya could've picked a better place to talk about it if you didn't want people to hear," Cyril said, turning to face Claude. 

"True." 

"...what do ya think is going to happen to Petra?"

Claude's mouth thinned into a line. "Depends on Edelgard."

"So you don't know at all then. I can't believe Edelgard was behind it all." The skies darkened and the coming shadows dragged themselves across Cyril's face. "Remire was her own people! And now she's attacking them again!"

"In hindsight, it was obvious enough." Claude's expression was oddly empty. Not in the way the professor's had been. That emptiness had been like nothing had ever been there at all--Claude looked like he had been drained, and now Cyril was given the opportunity to properly peer at what had been hidden. A cold void. The thing that swallowed the light in his eyes even when he was smiling. "Did you know? After the incident with Lonato, she praised him when I was talking to her. Said that she too, was one to sacrifice her people for the greater good."

"Gods, and how often did she talk about the Alliance and Kingdom being rogue pieces of the Empire?" Claude laughed, but the void swallowed its mirth. "When you're too convinced of something, if you let yourself get too attached to an idea, you stop being able to see things clearly. I knew that. I knew that and still...nothing fell into place until I _ saw _ that the Flame Emperor was Edelgard. I really thought that with time, we could--"

Cyril waited, but Claude just heaved a sigh and stopped here.

Sacrifice for the greater good. Cyril grit his teeth. What did one who chose the sacrifices understand of the ones being sacrificed anyhow? "So she said all that, huh? Then I guess I shouldn't be so surprised she picked war." His nails dug into his palms. "It's not _ fair _."

"No, it isn't," Claude said. "Nobles start the war, but the commoners always spill blood first."

Cyril blinked. "Yeah…"

Claude dragged his gaze from the distance to refocus on Cyril. "What? Did I say something wrong?"

"No, I guess...it's odd hearing it come from a noble's mouth."

Claude laughed again, but this time amusement managed to slip out past the void. "That was one of the first lessons my father tried to impress on me."

"Your _ father _?" Cyril tilted his head skeptically. "I thought ya said you came from a military family."

"I do." He lifted an eyebrow. "Is it so odd that he thinks that way?"

Cyril's mouth opened and shut again. A military family wasn't merely a family with soldiers. Anyone who would claim such a title would've had a chain of at least ten generations holding rank in the Almyran army. Claude's family would've been one that built their glory in war and battle. The more of it, the more prominent they would become. And there was plenty of it--that was why the ruling families of Almyra had always come from martial backgrounds. 

"He was on the front lines during the worst of the second wave of war with Leicester," Claude continued. "He must've been tired of watching Khidr turn into a province of corpses. _ War is just a culling. _ " His voice dropped a pitch in an imitation of what Cyril supposed was his father's voice. " _ It brings no change. The ones on the bottom continue to die, and the ones at the top dither until there is no one beneath them left to cull. _ Better to go for the top in the first place."

This time, it was Cyril who let out a bitter laugh. "Be nice if someone like your father was a king."

The amusement was flooding Claude's face now. "My father being king wouldn't change a single thing. There's always a blind spot. Something being neglected." A sigh. "Someone with a hold over so many lives should be better than human, yet the king must be human."

"I don't know why ya have to make it sound like it's such a hard decision to not kill other people," Cyril said heatedly. "Or at least, if nobles have to have their pissing contests, can't they leave us out of it?!"

"Mmm," Claude hummed an agreement. A pause. "The last caravan for the Alliance is leaving tomorrow."

"What about it?"

"You should be left out of Edelgard's pissing contest. You should go with them, Cyril."

Cyril's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Don't try this with me again. It's not gonna be my first battle. It's not even gonna be my first war."

The glare had no effect. "Being in multiple wars isn't something to try for. If you've been in one, then that's all the more reason you avoid this one."

"Avoid it and what?!" Cyril shouted, rising heat pushing his exhaustion further and further away. "I'm not like you Claude. I have no blood to back me in Fodlan. I'd be as trapped at the eastern church as I was at House Goneril as soon as the bishop there remembers he hates Almyrans. And if that's the case, then I'd rather die here--"

"Don't say that," Claude said roughly, dragging a hand across his face. "You're not going to die--"

"And how would you know that? Stop trying to make it seem like you know what's going to happen! Stop trying to make me think that things will be alright! Because you're wrong. You've _ been _ wrong! A war is coming. The Empire won't stand with us. Edelgard is with the people who destroyed Remire! There's no way everything will be fine--"

"Yes, I was wrong!" It was remarkable how even after nearly a year, Claude could still make his presence flare such that Cyril's shouts feel like ineffectual squawking. Whatever he thought of saying next scattered, broken into pieces by a strike of Claude's voice. "From the very beginning, I read her incorrectly--but what of it, Cyril? What does that have to do with you wanting to throw your life away?!"

"I-I'm not throwing--"

"What else would you call staying here?"

"You don't get to say that!" Cyril cried, rallying the scattered pieces back to form. "You're staying to fight, monks are staying to fight--why can't I?!"

"Because you're a _ child _\--"

"I'm _ fifteen _! I've been sent out since I was ten!"

"As a message runner! And even that was wrong--you know that!"

"How old were you?" Cyril watched Claude swallow and took a step forward. Even at the beginning of the year, Claude had been good. Too good to have been kept in reserve if he had been apprenticed into the army. "How old were you when they sent you out to battle in Parsa?"

Claude's expression became stoney, and his voice too even. "That's beside the point--"

"You were younger than I am now," Cyril said, staring up at him.

"I was ready--"

"And _ I'm _ ready. I've been on every mission and in every fight with the rest of the Golden Deer for months now!"

"This isn't just a small skirmish in the Holy Tomb! This isn't even like the skirmish at the Locket! We're facing the full weight of the Imperial forces. The Knights of Seiros aren't going to be an overwhelming advantage like they were against the western church. This is a full _ war _!"

"You think I don't know what a war is?!" Cyril shot back. "I've spent more of my life in one than out. If the numbers are so bad, then I _ should _ be fighting! I dunno why you're always so against--"

"_ Because _ you've been in war for so long," Claude said, voice rising over Cyril's again. " _ Because _ this shouldn't involve you. _ Because _all you've wanted is to be kept out of this! Why is it so hard to believe that maybe I want that for you?!"

Cyril looked away. He hadn't meant to, but what else could he do with the weight of such earnesty? Concern was a heavy chain. Claude's heavier than most; heavier than any he could remember binding him. It held him fast, pulling him down from the blinding fury that brewed inside of him. 

There was a certain freedom to be a broken off link in a chain--forgotten and left to do as it liked. Such a burden had made him happy once, but now it was terrifying to carry the thought that his loss would pull another down. 

No, not just one person. He would rather die than lose the people important to him again, but maybe it wouldn't be too arrogant to think that they'd rather not lose him either.

Cyril's fingers twisted into his waist cloth. "It's not hard to believe you care. But you are wrong about one thing Claude. I can't avoid this war. I don't...I don't want to die, but this isn't unrelated to me. Garreg Mach is my home. I waited...I waited so long to have another one...to let myself think of another place as home. I can't lose it again so soon. I can't run anywhere--I don't _ want _ to run anywhere. Because this is where I would run back to. This is the place where I've got people who want me."

"I see." The voice was resigned, and Cyril chanced a glance back. "So it's already like that." Claude fell silent, but from behind his tightly closed lips, Cyril could see the jump of his jaw as he ground his teeth back and forth. Cyril dropped his gaze back to the ground. Claude's words hadn't offered another argument, so Cyril wondered why it still felt so heavy.

"You know," Claude said suddenly, breaking the quiet. "After the Long Night, the Five Tribes wandered the wastelands for a thousand years before they found a place to call their homeland. It was easy to die. It was hard to keep going when there was just _ nothing _ day after day. Year after year." Cyril watched as Claude kneeled and slid into view. He could feel Claude's hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"I know...I know that it must be terrifying to lose everything, but you have to be brave. The monastery is just a place marked with stone. What's important isn't this place. Keep the people who made it home close, and let the monastery fall if it comes to it. You'll find another place one day, or maybe you'll reclaim this one. It'll be the end if you die here, but even if it's only after a thousand years of wandering, you'll be closer to your destination if you can keep going. So," the hand on his shoulder tightened, "promise me, Cyril. Promise me that you'll run if the Imperial Army takes Garreg Mach."

_ Yes _ , Cyril wanted to say. _ I promise _.

But he could see no path beyond the monastery's ruins. Only a void laid beyond it, and it eagerly devoured the promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a name for Jan like 10 chapters ago, but I never got a chance to use it until now.
> 
> I'm never sure when to bump up the rating for violence. When is violence a T and when is it an M?


	38. Two Back

There was one habit of his that had continued as an unbroken chain from his days when he had a family up until now. Each morning when he opened his eyes, he would take the cloth he hung by his bed and wrap it once, twice, thrice about his waist. 

Its creation had begun even before his birth. His father had picked the color: the deep green of Khidr touched by the blue of the sky. His mother had spent her time awaiting his arrival at the hearthside with needle and thread in hand, stitching good fortune and blessings into the cloth. For health, for safety, for success--a thousand prayers passing from her through the needle. Thoughts of love given form so that they may manifest from good thoughts into reality.

It had continued to collect blessings even after his birth. From the dusting of white ash when the fire vessel was lit, and from the new stitches of golden thread added when it was torn. 

And on the night his village was raided by Fodlani soldiers, once more from his mother's prayer as she hastily wrapped it for him. He had been half asleep, but he supposed it worked. He was alive.

The trouble, he found, was that misfortune and hate did not disappear when turned away by wards and prayer. It slinked away from the blessed, and sought those unprotected. He hadn't known how to pray for his mother and father, so that which skulked away from him reached for them instead.

They were gone, but the blessings remained. He remained.

For how much longer, he did not know.

The roar of the Imperial army seemed as endless as the clash of waves on rock. Rhythmic, pulsing, uncaring of who cried for it to cease. His fingers were beginning to bleed from the repeated pulling of his bow, but such a small wound meant that he was blessed still, even in this land unwatched by the gods of Almyra.

"Fire!" Shamir commanded.

As one, they all loosed their arrows. The air hummed with the vibration of bow strings. A high whistle of hundreds of arrows rose and fell as one. One was out of sync: it whistled by Cyril's ear and stopped in the eye of the soldier beside him. The soldier screamed, hand flying up to hold in the lifeblood gushing from the arrowhead. Cyril's eyes retraced the arrow's path and quickly spotted an Imperial Archer, readying another arrow. Cyril drew his own bow and fired before they could. 

They were perched on the walls surrounding the monastery. The battle spread out before him in the streets that on an ordinary day would be bustling at this time. They were still filled, but no longer with families milling about the cobblestone paths, peering into the windows of storefronts. In their place were legions of soldiers trading blood instead of coin.

The majority of the students from the three houses had taken to the streets. They had graduated from hiding behind vanguards of the Knights of Seiros--they were the vanguard now. The arrowhead to pierce through the hide of the Imperial Army. Only Ashe and Ignatz had stayed behind with him at the walls, but now even they were lost among the shuffle of soldiers.

Maybe they were dead.

Cyril ground the idea to dust between his teeth. Don't think. Don't think.

"Imperial calvary approaching from the east!" Shamir shouted. "Units five and seven: fire!"

Don't think. Cyril drew his bow, found his target, and his mind was void. Nothing existed except the point of his arrowhead and the mounted soldier at the end of it. He let go.

The arrow plunged into the soldier's neck, and the soldier slid sideways off his horse. Already, Cyril's eyes had darted to another soldier. Another target.

The horsemen stayed clustered even under the onslaught of arrows, shields raised over their heads to prevent fatal shots. Some arrows still slid into their weak spots--necks of horses, stomachs where the pain doubled them over and off their steeds--but the remainder of the riders broke through.

The Imperial horsemen were gathered around a pair of riders dragging a cart behind them. The shields towered over them from the front, and were raised above their heads around the center, creating an odd, fragmented turtle shell.

"Damn it," Shamir cursed. She called to the towers, "Fire the catapults at the center of that formation!"

With a groan of creaking wood, the catapults arcs through the air, flinging a stone at the wall of shields. One crashed harmlessly to the shell's left, but the other struck the shields in the front. The shell cracked at the impact. Shields fell away to reveal a rider bent at an unnatural angle, the blood of his steed mixing with his own. There was a tangle of hooves clambering over the bodies, but riders from the backlines quickly filled in the front and the shell was resealed. 

Shamir called for more stones to be cast, but all the hits did was whittle away at the mass of shields--the wall continued to approach.

It stopped only when it wished to. The shields fell away like petals from a flowering tree after the spring bloom, and at its center, the long protected cargo was revealed.

It was a ballista mounted atop a cart. Cyril could already see the glint of the prepared bolt.

He blinked, and the glint disappeared. A whistle of wind beside him. A sickening crunch sounded in the catapult tower.

Cyril turned. The bolt was the size of a large wagon's axle, and it skewered through the two ends of the stone walled parapet. One end dripped with blood. The catapult launcher was still upright. Still on his feet. The metal bolt skewering him ensured that he would not fall.

His eyes were wide, but life had faded from them.

"Shoot before they can ready another bolt!" Shamir's voice broke through his daze, snapping his eyes back forward.

The other archers reacted before him, but even they weren't quick enough. It was like time was reversing--the petals of a flower closing again for the coming of a second spring. The shields enclosed the ballista, and the arrows clattered uselessly off of them.

Shamir had drawn her own bow. "Fire immediately when the shields drop."

Cyril drew his bow and waited. The seconds passed, then minutes. His arms were beginning to shake from the effort of keeping the bow string taut, and his back burned from the exertion. He chanced a glance at Shamir from the corner of his eye, but her aim was still perfectly steady. Still as the surface of unmarred water.

"Fire!"

Cyril hastily looked back towards the clustered Imperial calvary. Sure enough, the shields were dropping and a rain of arrows fell to greet the blooming formation. One of the arrows struck the soldier by the ballista. Even as they fell, they pulled the lever to release the bolt--but the fall dropped the bolt's path. It missed the western catapult tower, embedding itself instead just below the height at which the floors along the wall's parapet were laid.

Cyril allowed himself to sigh in relief at the sight of the shields rising. There were many that remained scattered about the battlefield, owners too injured to lift them any longer. It was a looser formation. Perhaps this time they wouldn't have to wait for the shields to drop--

"Get away from the wall!" Shamir shouted.

Don't think. That was the right thing to do.

But he was thinking too much. Rather than listen to Shamir, he looked down at the bolt embedded into the wall. This time, he saw it: the spell carved into the bolt itself. The symbols sparked, and at last, Cyril ran to move away from it.

A flash. A boom. And then heat flared against him, but mercifully, his mind allowed him to sink into the darkness before the warmth turned into the searing stab that he knew would follow.

The pain felt distant, like he was drowning in the depths of an ocean while it floated upon the surface waves. He pushed through the water, arms and legs feeling sluggish. They knew better than to return to consciousness. Still, Cyril kicked his feet and slowly, all too slowly, he rose.

When he broke through the surface and woke again, even through the blurred film of his half consciousness, he knew he was no longer anywhere near the wall. The smell of dust and bodies were too strong for the open air. A mumbling tone of voices drifted towards him, and Cyril shifted. Immediately, pain rippled from his neck to the very tips of his toes, shaking off the gauzy film and forcing the picture of his surroundings into clarity.

A stone floor, high beams--despite it all it was the cathedral. Stripped of all that made it holy, now just a room for those wounded in flesh rather than just spirit. As far as he could see, people were laid out on the ground, just like him. Yet even so, a quiet murmur of prayer filled the halls--soft songs to sooth the pain--and perhaps that was enough to sanctify it.

"You're awake!" White hair appeared in his line of vision, brushing the ground. "How are you feeling, Cyril?"

With some effort, Cyril rolled his head to look upwards. Lysithea was hovering above him, brows drawn in worry. "What?" His voice came out in a crackle. He swallowed and gritted his teeth when even that hurt. "The Imperial Army. What happened?"

Lysithea's gaze flicked away, but drew itself back as if knowing that looking away would do no good. "They're...well...we managed to hold off Edelgard's forces, but…" He watched a swallow travel down her throat. "There were reinforcements. And we couldn't...they had more demonic beasts." The look in her eye hardened. "I suppose their experiments paid off. There were so many of them, and so much stronger."

Cyril squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that he could fall back into unconsciousness. "The Crest Stones from the tomb."

"Most likely. Yes." A pause. "B-but how are you? The healers are stretched right now so I had to try to heal you. I've never worked much on white magic so I wasn't able to do much more than stop your bleeding. But once Flayn gets back--"

"I'll be alright." Cyril opened his eyes. This was reality. He couldn't avoid that. "So...what now?"

Her lips thinned into a line. "I don't know. They've breached the hills already. The knights are still trying to hold a line to keep them from reaching the monastery, but…"

"What about the rest of the Golden Deer?"

"We're all...we're all still here." She smiled shakily. "That's good enough, right?"

"Ignatz was at the wall," Cyril said. "Ashe too. What about them?"

"They're alive." _ But not unscathed _ went unspoken.

But Lysithea was right. That was good enough. As good as he could hope for.

"Oh--Claude!" Lysithea jolted to her feet, waving her arms. "Claude! Cyril's awake!"

Claude always did move silently. Cyril didn't notice his approach until his face was already hovering over him. Blood and dirt caked his skin, but Cyril couldn't see any wounds marring them. So Claude too, was blessed. Even in Fodlan. The smile on Claude's face was as bright as ever--a false sun when the storm was already at the door. How could he still wear it so well? No joy lit his eyes, but no panic clouded them either.

"Looks like you beat Ignatz to it," Claude said. "Good to see you made it." 

A hand slipped under his neck and Cyril ground his teeth in pain as he felt his head being lifted from the ground. Claude lifted a vulnerary flask to Cyril lips and tipped it into his mouth. It was a bitter concoction to swallow, flavor lingering so long Cyril wondered if it was a side effect of the enchantments that made its effects so quick. The burning sensation faded from Cyril's arms.

"It'll fix the burns, but not the broken bone," Claude said as he settled Cyril back onto the ground. "We'll still need to get you a sling for that--"

"No need." Her usual voice fluttered on high like a bird in the breeze, but although its pitch had not changed, there was weight to it now that kept it grounded. Kept it so that even before Cyril saw Lady Rhea's face, his heart already fell. She looked tired, he thought. Not from fighting, but from holding back whatever emotion threatened to breach the restrained calm.

Lady Rhea's hand touched his, and where it did, a point of warm relief spread. The pain disappeared, and the sudden lack of it made the  _ nothing _ that was normal feel like the most incredible thing in the world.

"Rhea." Cyril was surprised by the sudden shift in Claude's tone. The smile had fallen off so swiftly. 

"Claude," Lysithea hissed. "It's  _ Lady _ Rhea--"

"You saw the Imperial reinforcements," Claude continued. "You know our line won't hold."

Lady Rhea did not look at Claude. "Yes. I know."

"You're not asking us to fight to the last, are you? Because I won't." Cyril's pulse thudded in his ears, but Claude's focus was too fixated on Lady Rhea to notice Cyril's attempts to sit up. "Even Teach can't kill one of those demonic beasts alone. We don't have anything here that can deal with them. With their presence in the Imperial Army, it's already been decided. There's no point in continuing the battle."

"...you are asking for a retreat?"

"I'm not asking. I  _ will _ call for everyone from the Alliance to retreat."

Lady Rhea took a deep breath. It rattled her all the way through. "We'll call for a full retreat--"

"No!" Cyril sat up, looking desperately between two people that would not look at him. "It's too soon--"

"--I will notify the knights--"

"Lady Rhea!"

"--please organize the Alliance forces, and notify Prince Dimitri to do the same for the Kingdom."

"And if the Empire continues to attack?" Claude asked.

"Do not worry. The retreat will be covered."

Cyril pulled at her robes. "Don't--"

"Cyril." He stilled at his name and straightened when she at last turned to look at him. "It's alright." She smiled. One of the ones that she would give on any other day. "Thank you for all your efforts. I will not allow it to be wasted. I'm certain that the goddess will open a path for you." The smile fell away as soon as she refocused on Claude. "Well then. Hurry. The more we wait, the more lives will be lost."

Claude stood and strode away without another word. Lady Rhea left in equal silence. Cyril sat there for a moment, dazed.

"So it's over like that," Lysithea muttered, eyes following Claude. "We've lost."

They lost. The monastery was lost. Just like that, everything would slip away from him again. Like a pickpocket's trick-- _ look here _ while another hand snaked around back to take what was most important.

"No!" Cyril shouted, making Lysithea jolt back. It wasn't too late. He would cling to it if he had to. He made a move to rise to his feet, only to stumble back onto the floor.

"Cyril, be careful!" Lysithea knelt down beside him, attempting to settle him back on his back. "Your legs got the worst of it. You shouldn't overexert--"

He shoved her hand away, rolling himself onto his knees and pushing himself back into standing position. He swayed, but he did not fall. Ignoring Lysithea's protests, he darted out of the Cathedral.

Smoke was rising high, wind blowing its embers and soot throughout the monastery. The plumes mixed and mingled with the clouds, as if the fire itself were trying to consume the heavens. Underneath the burning sky, all he could see were bodies. Laid out of the ground all around the cathedral, lining the bridge, spilling into the main halls of the monastery. Body after body, some stirring, some still as the dead. Some already dead.

He turned in circles. Bodies. Bodies. Bodies. Fire. Fire. Fire.

But no Lady Rhea.

He darted around the corner. Claude.

Claude's back remained turned to him as Cyril approached.

"--where's Dimitri?"

Felix scoffed. "Where else? The boar only thinks of one thing now."

"Hanging Edelgard's head from the gates of Enbarr, yes. I've heard," Claude said, waving his hand. "But Edelgard's forces are already gone, she's not even on the battlefield anymore--"

"It doesn't matter," Felix snapped, glare intensifying. "He only thinks of _one_ _thing_."

"Claude!" Cyril interjected. "Have you seen--"

"She went to talk to Shamir," Claude said, nodding toward one of the small side rooms lining the walls. 

Yes, the most important things were still in sight. Cyril let out a breath, and with it, whatever was holding him upright gave out and he wobbled. More of the injured were laid out around him. The Kingdom had taken this corner for their soldiers. He recognized several of the Blue Lions laid out among them. A flash of red hair from Sylvain, and silver from--"Ashe!"

He was close enough to stumble his way over before he finally allowed himself to sit on the ground. Ashe's eyes were still closed, but that might've been for the better. A long scrawl of blood was cut diagonally along his chest, and Cyril could see the bandages wrapped up to his neck.

But, Ashe was still here. Cyril hugged his knees to his chest, gathering the remains of what made up his life at the monastery close to him.

"The Archbishop has called for a retreat," he heard Claude say.

"The boar won't care," Felix said flatly.

"Scintillating insight." Claude dragged a hand down his face. "But not very useful."

"Dedue's probably with him," Sylvain said suddenly. Slowly, he raised himself on his elbows, flinching but staying upright. "Maybe he'll be able to convince Dimitri to retreat."

"Probably. Maybe." He sighed. "Guess I can work with that." Claude dug around his pouch and pulled out a slip of paper. It flew up with a toss, and almost by instinct, Felix caught between his fingertips. "The route marked there should still be clear," he said as Felix opened it up. "Hug the cliffs and you should be able to hit the west road back to Faerghus without running into Imperial forces. Since Dimitri's in no state to do this, you'll have to organize the retreat for the Kingdom."

"Sylvain can do it," Felix said, tossing the paper in Sylvain's lap. "Someone needs to drag the boar back."

Claude stepped between Felix and the path out. "Sylvain can barely walk. You have authority whether you like it or not. Someone needs to organize everyone from the kingdom."

"Wait, what about Dimitri?" Sylvain said.

"I'll find Dedue and we'll drag Dimitri back," Claude replied.

Felix's scowl deepened. "This doesn't concern you."

"He means it's not your responsibility," Sylvain said quickly.

"Someone has to organize the retreat for the ones still on the battlefield. That's been left to me. It'll be more efficient to let me find Dimitri." 

Felix continued to glare, but as with all such daggers thrown Claude's way, it missed its mark and glanced harmlessly off of him. "Fine," Felix bit out at last.

"Good." Claude smiled like a merchant closing a deal, and Felix looked every bit as sour as a customer that knew they had been undercut.

When Claude stepped away from Felix, he did not move to cross the bridge. Instead, Cyril watched Claude approach and kneel beside the spot where he had curled up. Claude's eyes had locked themselves to Cyril's, making his question thrum with a pressure that forced a binding answer. "You will run, won't you?"

Slowly, Cyril nodded. "I will."

Claude let out a breath and dropped his gaze. "I'm glad." He was rummaging in his pouch again. Before long, he pulled out a small satchel and dangled it in front of Cyril. 

Hesitantly, Cyril took it from Claude and tugged at the drawstring so that the cloth unfurled in his palms. A small handful of ashes sat at its center. "It's cold now," he heard Claude say, "but it should still be good for a blessing." The light shifted, a shadow now cast over him as Claude stood. 

Cyril jerked his head up. "Aren't ya going back out there? Y-you need it more than I do!"

Claude let out a bark of a laugh. "I'll live. I always do." Before Cyril could protest, Claude had already turned and run off.

And he was left staring at his parting gift. Cyril threaded his fingers through the ash and he thought he could still feel the ghost of the fire that must've burned that morning in Claude's fire vessel. Still feel the sear of its purification. He squeezed it against his palms, letting the heat from his hands stir the fire's ghost closer to life. Once warmed, he brushed his palms against his waist cloth. Another good thought collected.

A door opened and Shamir stepped out. Quickly, Cyril retied the satchel and wrapped Ashe's fingers shut around it. If the gods of Almyra still acknowledged him here, then surely, they could watch over Ashe as well. "I'll be seeing ya," he muttered, bowing his head once.

Then, louder, "Shamir!"

She turned, eyes widening slightly as she walked to meet Cyril halfway. "You're up," she said. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Cyril said, peeking around her. He frowned. "Where's Lady Rhea?"

"She left first. We need to prepare--"

"Left?" A lump appeared in Cyril's throat. "Left for  _ where _ ?!"

"She didn't say." Shamir's expression did not change. Search as he might, Shamir had slid on something even more smoothed over than her usual stoicism. It was too odd.

Shamir kept talking, but Cyril's mind was buzzing too loudly to hear. The side rooms always had two doors--the main one in the courtyard that Lady Rhea had taken to enter it, and the backdoor that led back into a hallway in the Cathedral. A hallway that lead to the bridge.

"--can you do that, Cyril?"

"Yes," Cyril said automatically. He waited for Shamir to turn away before sprinting for the bridge.

Every step, the smell of war grew heavier. Smoke, burning flesh, spilled blood--all so heavy that even the chasm beneath the bridge could not swallow it all. He ran like a fool chasing the sun as it moved to dip below the horizon, abandoning the world to be lit only by a fire of humanity's creation. Higher and higher the flames rose.

It was the same as the war that had consumed his village. The same as any other war fought before it. The same as any war that would be fought after it.

It all burned the same, no matter what pretty promises the kings made to the survivors they did not know would exist.

_ The earth nurtures the trees. The trees bear fruit. The stems feed the fires. The ashes enrich the earth. _

The fires of war were always so different from the gentle flame of the Immortal Fires. It was not one that was ever fit to warm his hearth; its smoke acrid against his throat and lungs. No cleansing warmth that pushed his fears away.

The rot of death tainted the smoke and ash. The flames cried out in fierce roars as the corruption of the corpses transformed it into something no longer divine. All that was left was destruction, and such unholy fire was the only kind wielded by kings. 

The burn drifted down his throat, through his lungs, and from there pumped its way through the rest of his body. His legs wanted to stop, but Cyril urged them forward. They had run longer, faster, than this. Faster when it had mattered less.

Soldiers were beginning to stream past him. The wounded guiding the wounded. The retreat had begun, but Lady Rhea did not lead them.

Cyril stumbled against the counter current, no longer able to rush forward thoughtlessly. He wove away from the crowds towards the margins. Stones or spells had knocked down the main walls. The wounded couldn't stumble over the crumbling edifice, but he could.

The battlefield opened up before him. Nothing could hide it now. The red of Imperial forces were licking at mix matched colors of those defending the monastery. They would reach even the crumbled walls soon.

A screech ran through him in a wave and echoed across the field. He could see a ripple of shock run through the soldiers, the dying light shifting against their helmets as they looked upwards.

A shadow fell over him and passed, and the wind trailing behind it knocked Cyril into the grass. His father had always said to be wary of where he stood when a wyvern took flight, but when Cyril looked up, what he saw wasn't a wyvern.

It was too large, especially for one of its white coloring. Its scales were like plate armor and the crown of horns adorning its head made wyverns antlers look like mere twigs. Each flap of its wings propelled it forward, filled with a grace lost in the frantic up and down of wyverns beating their arms.

With one cry, light shot from its maw and cut a line through the Imperial soldiers. A clean cut that left nothing behind. No soot, no smoke--not purification, but eradication beyond anything like fire.

A dragon. Even if he had only seen it in plays and heard it spoken of in stories, he knew that it could be nothing else.They were supposed to have been lost to the ages. He could hear Claude's excited voice in his head.

_ They call it the Immaculate One or whatever, but that's a dragon! _

The divine messenger of the goddess. It swept across the battlefield, heading for the cluster of black dots in the distance and leaving a trail of nothingness in its wake. He narrowed his eyes, bringing the dots into focus.

Arash's golden mask gleamed back at him. The crown on his head, the red rope that dangled as his figure ran across the play's stage. But it was all wrong. The mask danced about in grotesque movements, a mockery with none of the dignity that actors had always given the Kamangi king. 

Black sinew shined with a slick tar, dripping like blood from half formed flesh. They threw back their heads as the dragon approached and let out a screech of their own. Cyril shivered. It was the cry of demonic beasts. So this was what Edelgard had filled her army with. Unholy flames, and monsters she had given the mask of a rare king who had prayed for peace.

_ The scripture couldn't even bear to admit that the darkness the heroes drove out were just humans. _

The demonic beasts rushed forward to meet the dragon. Their slinking movements and the unnatural bend of their limbs twisted Cyril's stomach.

Was that what they were? Was this how Fodlan saw Almyra? Beasts eked out from the darkness?

The dragon roared and Cyril could do nothing but stare as dragon and demonic beasts tore at each other.

On the Long Night, the gods would battle with the evils of the world.

On the days of salvation, the goddess would send her messenger to rid Fodlan of the darkness.

The legends stirred and collided in his head. Arash. The Immaculate One. Demonic beasts. 

He felt impossibly small. Impossibly futile. What had he hoped to accomplish? Beyond even the clash of kings, the stuff of scripture was appearing before him, and there was no place for someone like him to exist anywhere except as a fiber in the whitespace between their inked words.

"--ril!"

A hand knocked the air out of Cyril and he was sent tumbling backwards. On instinct, he uprighted himself and dragged his gaze close to focus on what was in front of him.

Claude's back was turned to him. The quiver on his back was empty. Silver gleamed in his shoulder and blood dripped onto the grass. Cyril felt his throat go dry.

A sword had cleaved itself into Claude, and Claude simply stepped forward, sliding against the sword's edge. His own sword rose in an arc and slid through the Imperial soldier. It was the expertise of a butcher, knowing to slide across the flesh unblocked by bone, unlike the stroke that had buried itself in Claude's collar bone. The soldier collapsed.

Claude hissed as he pulled the sword from his shoulder. 

"Claude--"

"You said you would run!" Claude barked, turning on his heels to face Cyril. 

Cyril almost fell backwards again. The fury flashing in Claude's eyes was dim compared to the golden light that was coursing through across the veins in his face, down his neck, and all converging in a knot at his wound. It moved like thread, sewing the wound shut easy as a seamstress mending a shirt.

It wasn't natural, Cyril thought desperately. It hadn't been any sort of divine guidance that had protected Claude. It had been this that left his body unmarred.

Claude grabbed Cyril by the arms, ignoring his alarm and pulling him along in a run. It was just Claude, Cyril thought. No it was something that was more than human. Something that could exist within the sacred texts. It was a monster. It was a blessing. It was a curse. It was--

The dragon let out a scream. 

Cyril turned and watched the demonic beasts fall upon it. The mask hid their mouths, but he could see blood spurt where their heads ran over the dragon's flesh.

Claude's pace did not slow. He hadn't even turned to look. His gaze was fixed steadily in front of them. "Shamir!" Claude shouted.

Before he even saw her, Cyril felt Claude pull him forward and Claude's grip on his arms was exchanged for Shamir's. "Get him out of here," Claude said.

Shamir nodded. There had barely been a break from running. Everything burned. Soldiers and monks streamed around them, all desperate to retreat from the fire. Without knowing why, he was searching the crowds.

Lady Rhea. He had gone to find Lady Rhea. And Lady Rhea was nowhere among the stream leaving the monastery.

"Shamir! Lady Rhea--"

"Keep running!" 

"Wait!" Panic rose. He tugged against Shamir's vicegrip. "We have to find her!" 

But nothing could make Shamir slow her pace.

In truth, even now he couldn't picture anything in the void of his future. He had thought--hoped--that he wouldn't need to. Even with a war at his gates, he had wanted to believe that the brittle shell protecting him was an invincible shield. He hadn't changed at all. He was still that child who had to be woken up in the middle of the night and dragged away to safety. Still the child who would be distracted by silly concerns while the things that mattered most slipped away.

He had been thinking of leaving. He had dared to start thinking of a future without the one who had laid the foundations for its existence. And what goddess wouldn't take the opportunity to punish such hubris?

So here he was. Arrived at the void. The scene was set.

Him. Shamir. Seteth. Flayn. Catherine. A curtain of blackened ash falling against their backs.

And Lady Rhea nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to kill my ability to keep writing: make me write a battle scene. I hate it. Which bodes poorly for war phase ahaha.
> 
> BUT FINALLY we have hit the end of White Clouds, and all I can say is that it will get worse before it gets better. I will guarantee that Cyril finds peace with himself by the end because why else am I writing all this? But I have no promises for a happy journey. I'm not really sure how it could be a happy journey anyways. It's a war.
> 
> The chapter's title is actually one half that creates one whole title when combined with an earlier chapter's title! It should be pretty obvious which one it is, but I'm interested to know what people guess anyways.
> 
> Also, I'm finally starting to use my twitter more @micro_lm. I plan to go back through the chapters and document the historical or in game references that drove some of the plot decisions, because I really just ripped off something existing for most of this fic for the lore. So if you're curious, check out the explanations there, because I can actually post pictures instead of talking about it like this haha.
> 
> For now, if you're curious about what is going on with the demonic beast masks, look up the "Mask of Sargon". I think that looks like a way better fit as an inspiration than any of the Hellenistic sculptures I looked at. Even checking older styles like those of the Minoan and Mycenean Greeks, with the diadem as crown, the braided beard, the more geometric shapes of the mask where the eyebrow seems to lead directly into the cheek, etc etc, I think the closest fit was still Mesopatamian statues. Of course, cultural exchange was in full swing during the bronze age--just look at the Hellenistic influences in the architecture of the Nabataens--but the look of the red tassels as a long braided beard is what really pushed it over the edge. That sort of beard style as portrayed in statues is much more of a Mesopatamian/Persian thing than a Greek thing (which in reliefs is rendered to look much more like curls rather than braids), as far as I can tell.
> 
> It was probably just a fun coincidence, but it fits nicely into my made up lore about Almyra, so of course I'm going to use it.


	39. The Culling

_ 1181 _

In peace, calm currents carry its cargo gently to its destination. It's slow, and those on the ship can rest--at ease knowing that when they wake, the ship will still be in one piece. The wood warms their backs in the pleasant sunshine.

When the storm of war swept through, the currents turned to waves, battering the ship at every turn and threatening to sink it into the ocean. Time stretches within each second. Each drop carrying within it a new tragedy--a new turn for the crew to contend with yet again.

One day was all it took to bring the monastery to its knees and empty it. One day was all it took for his world to shatter. But he had already known that. And he knew that the next days would break others' lives one by one.

A village razed to the ground at the borders of the Empire and the Kingdom as Imperial forces began its invasion of kingdom territory.

A caravan of refugees slaughtered by bandits drawn like carrion to gorge themselves on the misfortune of others.

Monsters driven from the forests by battle and tearing through the town that had emptied itself to feed the war.

That was the biggest monster in the end. The hungriest monster Cyril knew. The ravaging jaws of war always accepted sacrifices on the battlefield, and took a few extra by the thousand off of it when it felt a bit peckish.

One day was all it took for it all to change again. They had been guiding refugees from the borders of the Kingdom and Empire deeper inward to avoid the lines of war when from the blue, Prince Dimitri had been executed and a woman named Cornelia rose to prominence in the name of the Empire. What had once been safe territory was suddenly enemy territory. Travelers were viewed with suspicion as Cornelia solidified her hold. To flee from the Empire meant Kingdom sympathizers, and their group had been traveling among the western lands that had fallen to the new dukedom. 

They had had little choice but to divide themselves and change course to the eastern lands. Galatea was the closest, but Cyril wondered if the refugees they were guiding would be any better off there. He had heard Ingrid's tales of frozen earth and famines. Perhaps Claude's gifted crops would be able to feed them all, or perhaps they had all already been trampled under the feet of the Dukedom's attempts to invade.

More hunger. More death.

Cyril shivered and tugged his scarf further up the bridge of his nose. At the very least, there was one reason to be grateful for the frigid winds that blew through Faerghus. No one questioned why he covered his face. The only non-Fodlani people wandering Faerghus were the remnants of the Duscurians that had been scattered among western Faerghus after House Kleiman had taken their homeland. Or, like him, those that had once lived at Garreg Mach. Those associated with the church. If refugees were regarded with suspicion, then he was a bright flag that would bring death to their door. 

Night was falling over the town, and despite the cold, the winds did not howl. The snow fell slowly through the air; a diamond dusting that he could almost think beautiful. It was peaceful, and he would've felt at ease if not for the Imperial flags that now flew from every spire.

Shamir walked in front of him with an ease that could let people believe that she was just another resident returning home after a long day at work. Cyril stared at her steps--at her relaxed shoulders--and tried to do the same.

"Damn it, those kids are a handful," he heard Shamir say. Cyril stopped walking and turned to follow the direction of Shamir's gaze. Sure enough, the twin sisters they had been entrusted with had stopped following and were staring into a bakery instead. Their family had been too large to slip into town without drawing attention, so as the eldest, they had been deemed old enough to follow Shamir while their mother and father carried their younger siblings.

Not old enough, apparently. "I'll go get 'em," Cyril sighed.

They didn't stir as he approached. Instead, he watched them press their faces against the glass window of the shop, transfixed by the fluffy mounds of baked goods.

"Quit it," Cyril hissed, pulling them both away by their shoulders.

"But I'm hungry!" one whined.

"Really hungry!" the other chimed.

"There'll be food at the house." He pushed them towards where Shamir stood waiting. "Come on."

"Liar!"

"Liar!"

"You said that last time!"

"And it was just  _ water _ !"

"It was soup," Cyril said, abandoning the push in favor of dragging them along by their wrists.

"Liar!"

"Liar!"

" _ Good thoughts fill my mind, and no lies cross my lips _ ," Cyril muttered. He gave one more tug and at last the twins stopped digging their heels into the ground. He heard huffs and puffs, but they followed along.

"Ah!"

Cyril tensed at the cry. Were they being followed? Had they drawn the attention of Imperial Guards? Had his scarf slipped from his face?

But Shamir was still waiting calmly at the end of the street. Cyril swallowed the ache of panic and turned to look at one of the sisters. They were both staring up at a piece of parchment nailed into the wall.

"It's the paper with the black eagle picture," one muttered.

"They put those all over the village before the attack--"

"Doesn't that mean this place will be attacked too?"

"Ah, we should go warn everyone--"

"The Empire already controls this town, they're not gonna attack it," Cyril said flatly. "It's nothing, so don't go drawing attention, because that's what  _ will _ get your folks in trouble."

He was pleased to see that his words had an effect on one of the sisters, whose mouth clamped shut immediately. Unfortunately, the twins chose to diverge in personality for the first time before him and the other frowned instead before asking, "How do  _ you _ know what it says? Even ma and pa can't read."

"Well I can," Cyril said as he glanced back at the parchment. "It just says--"

_ \--the corruption of the Church has already eaten away at the land and seeped into the very fabric of the ruling class. Adrestia has purged itself of its foul influence, and it will be the one to bring salvation to this world. Those who choose to walk the path of truth will be spared, but those who continue to cling to lies will be shown no mercy. Only through the will of the Emperor shall the people of this land know true peace and opportunity-- _

"Ow!"

"Owwwww!"

Cyril loosened his grip on their wrists immediately. "S-sorry." He tore himself away from the announcement before he lost himself completely to his desires to rip it to shreds. "Come on, let's go."

"But what's it say?" one of them whined even as she allowed herself to be dragged along obediently.

"It's nothing." His tongue felt dry. "Just a bunch of lies."

Shamir's subtle glare was enough to keep them meek for the rest of the journey to the safehouse. It was a nondescript inn, but the symbol of Cethleann's fish drawn beneath a stone resting at its doorstep marked it as a haven for those who still followed the Church of Seiros.

The moment they entered, the twins' parents rushed forward to embrace the sisters, relieved that the journey was completed and the two of them safe under their watchful gaze. In the room behind the counter, Cyril could hear Seteth's voice leading a prayer.

"Get warmed up before you catch a cold," Shamir said before disappearing into the back room.

Cyril pulled his scarf back down and tucked it under his chin. Compared to the knife sharp chill of the outside, even the air of the unheated inn felt pleasant. Through the entranceway to the room on his left, he could see the telltale yellow glow of a hearth from the inn's kitchen. He peeked through the opening and not a single other person was inside.

He padded across the old wooden floors and plopped himself right beside the hearthside. The heat washed over him, and the deadened feeling in his fingers and feet gave way to the sharp pain that came with thawing. The snow dusting his coat was melting quick and bleeding into his undershirt. With a shiver, Cyril shucked off his bags and coat, hanging them over a barstool before running back to the hearth.

It felt quiet. There were muffled voices from the hum of prayer, but it felt so far away compared to the crackling of the fire. The stinging in his fingers was dulling. Nothing could bear to hurt for long in such warmth. Nothing outside of this ring of warmth felt real. Not the cold. Not the war. How could such misery exist alongside such bliss?

The sweet smell of pine drifted up with the smoke. If he shut his eyes, he could almost pretend it carried the smell of frankincense with it. His fingers played at his waistcloth. 

_ Good deeds, good thoughts. _

"Oh, Cyril, there's no need for you to sit there!"

Cyril's eyes fluttered open as he bent his head back to look up Flayn. Or what thought was Flayn. It was hard to see beyond the mass of plates and bowls that were piled up in her arms. "It's warm here."

"Ah, you just arrived then?" Flayn said as she shuffled behind him to set her burden onto the counter beside a lidded pot. "Excellent timing! We are most fortunate. The innkeeper could spare us some flour and goat! Miss Camula told me of the most wondrous stew during our walk into town, and lo' we will have the opportunity to try it tonight!" She beamed as she lifted the pots lid and breathed in the aroma. It wafted over and the smell went directly to his stomach. Cyril swallowed to suppress his stomach's gurgling instinct.

"Are ya setting up for dinner?" Cyril rose to his knees. "Lemme help--"

"No need, no need!" Flayn waved him back down with a ladle. "You have only just arrived. You ought to rest. Here!" She thrust a bowl of the stew forward. "Since you are not at the prayer service, you should eat while it is still warm!"

Before he could protest, Flayn shoved the bowl into his hands and pushed him until he was reseated on the ground. She stared down at him, daring him to try to stand again. Defeated under her forceful stare, Cyril brought the spoon up to his mouth.

It was richer than anything he had had recently. The flour had thickened the liquids into a proper stew, and the savory cubes of goat was a welcomed treat compared to the hardtack and dried provisions that made up their usual diet. He had almost forgotten what it felt like for fat to melt against his tongue. He could feel its warmth traveling down his throat and into his stomach until he was warm both inside and out. "It's good."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" Flayn tittered as she portioned out the stew into bowls. "We've been having a rough journey as of late. It's good that the innkeepers could spare so much for us."

"Yeah." Cyril chewed his meat thoughtfully. "It's pretty impressive how fast the church could set all this up. The safehouses and stuff I mean."

"We merely fell back to the old ways. In early days, the followers of the goddess were not welcomed in Fodlan."

Cyril turned his head to peer at her, eyes narrowing quizzically. "I thought the goddess was always worshipped here."

Almost imperceptibly, Flayn stiffened, but she was back in motion so quickly Cyril wondered if it was a trick of the light. "Ah, well. In the times of Nemesis, it was not so."

That didn't sound right either from the bits and pieces that he had heard from Lady Rhea's sermons. But he supposed that just meant there was more that he  _ hadn't _ heard.

Seteth's sermon ended right as Cyril finished his bowl, and the room filled with so many people at once that Flayn relented to his aid.

"Thanks!" one of the twins chirped as he set a bowl in front of her.

"Yeah!" the other chimed. "You were telling the truth after all!"

Cyril scoffed. "Of course I was. So you two better listen up next time I tell ya to behave."

"Okay!"

"Kay!"

Cyril looked around the room. Every person was huddled over their meal, and yet the counter still had more portions doled out. "Did ya miscount?" he asked Flayn.

"Of course not," she replied, tossing her head. "They are for my brother and the knights. I suppose they must still be in the back room. Help me carry the trays to them, won't you?"

With a heavy laden tray in each of their hands, Cyril and Flayn slipped from the kitchens, behind the reception desk, and into the backroom. As Flayn had claimed, Seteth, Catherine, Alois, and Shamir were huddled beside the fireplace, voices too low to hear from the entryway. Cyril frowned. There was one more figure he didn't recognize standing in their little group.

"--has already been taken, its Empire territory now," he heard Shamir say as he approached. "And we're not traveling  _ alone _ anymore, we need to get these people to Galatea."

Catherine scowled. "This is the  _ first _ word of Lady Rhea that we've had--"

Cyril froze. Thoughts of leaping forward and demanding an answer clashed against his fear of dropping the tray and the clumsy weight of it tangled his feet in place. All that was free to move was his tongue. "There's news of Lady Rhea?!"

All heads turned to look at him, and he felt more pinned in place than before.

"That is wondrous news, is it not?" Flayn said excitedly, stepping forward for him.

Shamir sighed. "It's not so simple--"

"It  _ is _ wondrous news," Catherine cut in. "News that we should act on immediately. Byleth may be with her as well."

"It's in the territory of the Western Church," Shamir snapped. "That place is already in Empire hands. Going there without a proper army backing us would be suicide!"

"We don't need to fight." Alois stepped between the two, back against Catherine and hands held up to placate Shamir. "We only need to verify the information--"

"The Empire is  _ swarming _ that place, Alois. Now that Garreg Mach has been cleaned out, they're clearing out the Western Church." Shamir's glare slid to the man that Cyril did not recognize. "Isn't that right?"

"Y-yes," the man stuttered, rigid under Shamir's forceful gaze. "W-we were already quite weakened after cleansing ourselves of the insurgents. I'm afraid everyone has fled…"

"You included," Catherine drawled.

The man flinched. "I-I'm ashamed--"

"Enough, we also fled from the Empire," Seteth said. "If nothing else, it is the Central Church that should be ashamed. We allowed the Empire to oust the Southern Church a hundred years ago, and now as a result, we can no longer be certain that our people in the Empire still live. We are grateful to know that those who remained in the Western Church managed to flee."

"There you have it," Shamir said. "The place is crawling with Imperial forces hunting for the church. This isn't something we can rush into. We have to treat it like making plans to enter the Empire--"

"It's  _ because  _ it's crawling with those bastards that we should go!" Catherine shouted, pushing up against Alois who gave a small  _ whoa _ and dug in his heels to hold her back. "We should be helping Lady Rhea before she gets caught and paraded around by those Imperial dogs!"

Edelgard had called for the fall of the church--no doubt the capture of the archbishop would be an event. The image of Lady Rhea, bruised and shackled as she was paraded about before the cheering Empire was like a knife giving a quick stab to his heart. A stab that pierced all the way to his throat, cutting away the lump that had silenced him. "W-we can't leave her alone there!"

Catherine nodded at Cyril. "See? Cyril understands."

"And what about all the people here?" Shamir said. "Are they not depending on us to take them to safety?"

Cyril bit his lip. Right. How would the refugees reach Galatea without them? Roads were filled with monsters--of both beast and men--and resources lacking without the church's cobbled together network.

"Half the knights can stay with them. We only need a small force--"

"We barely have the numbers to protect the caravan  _ now _ and you want to  _ split _ it--"

"If Lady Rhea is captured, then it's all over--"

"And you really think Rhea would rather we abandon these people?" Shamir's mouth was drawn back further than Cyril had ever seen it before, revealing a flash of white teeth grinding against each other in scarcely contained fury. Catherine didn't shirk from it, if anything, she was straining even harder against Alois, rising to Shamir's challenge. Cyril scrambled to put the tray of food down. "Do you even care what Rhea wants?!"

For a moment, Catherine went completely still. Alois swallowed, bracing, and Cyril shot forward to grab one of her arms. "Don't you dare," Catherine hissed, voice crackling, and then the spark of it exploding into a boom. She took a single step forward and Alois stumbled. The arm that Cyril grabbed might as well have been free--Catherine flung it out to punctuate her anger and Cyril fell backwards. He clambered up and threw himself back on the arm that was held out towards Shamir. " _ I'm _ the one who's trying to save her!  _ I'm  _ the one who's thinking of her, so don't you  _ dare _ try to talk to me about what Lady Rhea would want!!"

"If you're thinking of her, then why don't you remember her last orders?" Shamir's voice had yet to rise to a shout, but it was as rough as it would be if she were.

Catherine barked out a laugh. She shoved Alois out of the way with one arm and tore her other from Cyril's grasp. Her gauntlet caught on the corners of his waistcloth, but if Alois was pushed away so easily, how would a scrap of cloth feel like anything to her? The quiet rip couldn't even be heard over Catherine's fury. It tore down the middle, and the two ends--unable to hold itself together in a knot any longer--fluttered to the ground.

"So what?! Because you're too much of a coward to go where it's dangerous, you want to abandon her to die?!" Catherine's face was wrinkled in disgust. "Why don't you be honest for once and just admit you're just trying to save your own skin? You never cared about Lady Rhea! You never understood what she meant to Fodlan. And how could you? You're just some fucking Dagdan spy--"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Seteth roared. He pulled Catherine back with more force than Cyril would've expected. 

Shamir didn't move, eyes never breaking from Catherine's. "I'm trying to keep us alive," she said quietly. Catherine looked away. 

"Shamir," Seteth said with a sigh. "I understand your concern, but finding the archbishop and Byleth is our top priority." His eyes slid to Catherine. "Even so, Catherine, this is not something we can rush into on half-baked information--not with our current responsibilities. We will continue this discussion in the morning." 

Seteth swept from the room, and Flayn clattered after him with a cry of "brother, wait!" Silently, the others stalked after them. Catherine's eyes were fixed on the floor the whole time.

Cyril listened to them thud out, their footsteps dulled in his ears as he stared at the two scraps of his waistcloth. Already, the edges were beginning to unravel. It wasn't like the tears his mother used to fix. It was remarkable enough that it had lasted this long. He supposed it was only a matter of time until his blessings ran out. 

His hands fisted into the torn cloth. Maybe it was a sign that even the gods of Almyra were turning their backs on him.

"Want me to fix that for you?"

Cyril looked up to see Shamir peering down at him. He shook his head. "The tear's too big."

"Well, let's see." She lifted the torn edges, bringing the divide close together. "Hmm. It'd be much weaker."

"Yeah." Cyril tugged the cloth from Shamir's fingers and stared at their ends when they drooped sadly towards the ground. "It's fine."

"That so?" A pause. "Who made this?"

Cyril swallowed the incoming lump in his throat. "My mother."

"Ah. Then, it isn't fine. It was protecting you, wasn't it?"

He looked up. "How'd you know?"

"It's always like that when parents make you something," Shamir shrugged. "My family couldn't afford much, but they still made sure to scrape together the materials to make this." Her finger tapped on the metal of her necklace, a soft  _ one two three _ tack. "Of course, the chain to this broke a long time ago. But I repurposed it." She fell into a silence, thinking for a moment. "How about we sew it on your quiver? You always keep that close to you, don't you?"

"I-it's fine, you don't need to do all that--"

"Bring your quiver over," Shamir said with her instructing voice. Immediately, Cyril darted from the room to collect his quiver from the kitchen's hearthside and ran back to Shamir. By the time he returned, Shamir had somehow managed to have not only produced needle and thread, but finished looping the thread through the needle.

It felt rude to leave, but Cyril felt restless. He wished there was something to do while keeping Shamir company. Some dishes to clean, some floors to sweep. All he could do was pace back and forth before the fireplace, watching Shamir's needle go in and out of his leather quiver.

"The embroidery's nice," she said suddenly. "Your mother must've spent a lot of time on it."

"Yeah. She started it pretty much as soon as she knew she was going to have me."

"Planning ahead." She let out a short laugh. "From what my father told me, they were in a panic to getting my necklace made right up to the day I popped out."

Cyril stopped his pacing. "You never used to talk much about Dagda."

"You never spoke much about Almyra."

"That's--well...I didn't like to think about it much." He shifted uncomfortably. "Dunno if I still  _ like _ to think about it much."

"Hmm. Well. I don't hate Dagda. Just better not to speak too loudly of it in Fodlan."

"Then...do you hate Fodlan?"

"Do you?"

"Hey!" Cyril frowned at her, suddenly feeling a little childish. "I asked first!"

Shamir continued to sew evenly. "It's a loaded question. One you should answer before asking someone else."

"I--" Do. Don't. Do. Don't. Do. Don't.

The pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Almyra had nothing for him. Fodlan was at peace. Almyra was at peace. Fodlan had nothing left for him. One side, the kings called for glory and salvation, and left the husks of villages and poisoned land in their wake. On the other, the emperors and nobles called for glory and salvation, and left the husks of villages and poisoned land in their wake.

Do. Don't. Do. Don't.

In the end, it all blurred together. One endless conflict that consumed his life, and the peace he had thought he'd found nothing more than a temporary respite. It was like a curse, he thought, staring at the torn halves of his waistcloth. No matter where he ran, war would nip at his heels.

He had endured it all for peace. Day after day of eyes on his back. Of hatred that would always mark him as some sort of beast. All for the sake of a promised tomorrow, of a place to return to, of people who would be troubled if he were to die.

And now only one of those things remained. He supposed that was as much as he could hope for.

Cyril's mouth had hung open and dried. He swallowed, wetting his throat before speaking. "I hate anywhere like this."

Shamir gave a noncommittal hum. "Fair enough. As for me, war's always been a mercenary's business."

"The church isn't paying ya anymore."

"No. It's not."

"Then...you don't hate Fodlan?"

A short laugh. "Oh, I hate Fodlan. If Dagda were to attack, I'd probably join their army, seize western Fodlan, and pack myself home afterwards."

His mouth felt parched again. "So it's true? You're a Dagdan spy?"

"Not anymore," Shamir said lightly. "They're not paying me either."

"Then why--"

"Because Dagda's always hated Fodlan. Even before the country was established, it hated this place."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Doesn't it? You're Almyran. I'd imagine Almyrans feel similarly about Fodlan. Even if they don't hate the people here, there's resentment, isn't there?"

Cyril looked away. He hadn't been old enough to string together all the myths until Claude had told him, but he could still remember how Fodlan was viewed in Almyra.

Cowards, everyone would call them. Cowards who were too afraid to suffer beside those different than them. Cowards who would rather make deals with demons to greedily seal away their rich land, and in doing so, becoming something inhuman themselves. Cowards too afraid to live, too afraid to move forward.

_Backwards_, they'd always laugh. And underneath that sneering amusement, a simmering anger. One that had simmered for more than a thousand years. Perhaps longer, sparking even back in the days when the Five Tribes wandered the wastelands during the era of the Long Night.

"It's all old myths by now," Shamir said, eyes still fixed on the steady push and pull of her needle. " _ Men from the east grew too proud, and thought to kill even the gods that blessed them _ .  _ In their greed, they made their ambitions felt upon the world.  _ That sort of thing."

"And their destruction plunged the world into the Long Night," Cyril finished. He was watching Shamir closely now, and he thought he saw the edge of her lips twitch upwards.

"We called it the Great Winter. I imagine things went similarly regardless of the name. The skies darkened, snow fell in the summer, the land itself became frigid. Although, Almyra wasn't sunken into the sea."

Cyril shook his head before remembering that Shamir wasn't looking at him. "N-no."

"Well. That's what happened to Danu, according to legend. Part of it anyways. It's said the people of Fodlan stole the power of the gods and used it to smite the main island. The remaining land became cursed, and the people fled west on their ships, as far from Fodlan as they could get. Eventually, they chanced upon a land that they had never seen before. Even there, it was cursed to winter, and its inhabitants were also struggling to survive. But, there was nowhere left to flee, so the people of Danu stayed and fought. Eventually, they made a new country for themselves and their allies. They had several names for it, but in the Danu language, they called it  _ Dagda _ . Once the Great Winter ended, one of the princes sailed back west and repopulated the remains of the archipelago.  _ That _ became Brigid."

"No one could forget why Dagda and Brigid exist as they do now. And then Dagda attacked the Empire. It's funny, you know. Dagda's just a small part of that continent, but everyone in Fodlan thinks it all one and the same. I suppose that's why, when the Empire retaliated after the first war, they attacked a country that wasn't Dagda. And  _ that _ , well that solidified it all. Another eye for taking the eye of those who were uninvolved. They hired me because my Danu blood came out strong enough that I could pass for Fodlani, taught me the language until I spoke it flawlessly, and shipped me over."

"As a spy," Cyril said slowly.

Shamir nodded. "Dagda lost. Some of us got stranded here during the retreat. So here I am."

Catherine's face, twisted and ugly floated into his mind, and her voice echoed in its caverns. "So it's true then? You don't care what's going to happen to Fodlan. To Lady Rhea." His heart was thundering, and all the doubts he was trying to swallow continued to lodge themselves in his throat. "If it was you, I bet you could find a way back to Dagda."

"I could."

"Then why are you  _ here _ ?!"

Shamir's needle stopped moving. "Someone discovered I was Dagdan. I would've been killed, but Rhea happened to be passing by. She put me under the protection of the Central Church when they refused to let an unguaranteed foreigner go. It was quite a blood debt I owed her, so I let her hire me to repay it. I suppose I would've considered it well and paid, but then for her last order, she asked me to make sure that the knights would retreat. That they wouldn't fling themselves at a futile battle. And...." For the first time, Shamir looked up at him, eyes unwavering. "She asked me to take care of you."

He felt like the air was knocked out of him. Shamir had finally looked at him, but now he was the one staring at the dirt floor, watching the grains distort as his eyes trembled. 

"It wasn't the kind of orders that I was used to hearing," he heard Shamir say, "but they were the kind that I wanted to fulfill. I don't care about Fodlan. But I do care about  _ you _ , Cyril. About Catherine, Alois, Seteth, Flayn...and I care about what Rhea wanted."

"The refugees most likely won't be able to stay in Galatea. Once we reach there, we'll probably have to take them across the border to the Alliance. Cyril, I think you should go with them."

That snapped the fog from his mind and his head shot up. "What?! Why?"

Shamir didn't flinch. "Because things are only going to get worse, Cyril. Even ignoring the battles, the church isn't recognized by the Empire. It can't protect you anymore when we enter Empire controlled territory, and we  _ will _ be entering Imperial lands whether or not we go pursue that rumor of Lady Rhea. We're  _ already _ in Empire territory."

"You're not from Fodlan either," he shot back.

"But I can pretend I am. You can't." 

"Ya really think they'd treat an  _ Almyran _ any better in Leicester?!"

"Maybe not, but Claude would vouch for you."

Cyril froze. His last image of Claude was the anger on his face, of his body stitching itself back together. It wasn't human. Almyra had always spoken of Fodlan's elite in hushed whispers--the ones who made pacts and became something inhuman. He could ignore it when Hilda swung an axe entirely too large for her frame, when Lorenz and Lysithea's spells surged with unbridled strength that dwarfed that of their peers--those he could wave it away and pretend it was talent even when others praised the ability of their Crests. But Claude was different. It wasn't natural. It wasn't even like white magic that scabbed over wounds like papering over a hole. Flesh and blood had reconnected like it had never been severed at all.

He had thought, maybe, he was beginning to understand Claude, despite that odd distance he felt. But the truth of it was, Claude was just like the other nobles, maybe even more so. Something larger than that which fitted neatly into the frame of Cyril's mind, spilling over into things that should only exist in myth. It wasn't someone who occupied the same place as him.

Just another part of his odd dream of peace at the monastery. Now Cyril was awake, and Claude was a noble beyond his reach--the newly anointed Duke Riegan of the Leicester Roundtable. Whatever it was that Claude put in his eyes, it wouldn't be him. It wouldn't be the things that Cyril cared about.

"He's the duke. He has other things to worry about," he muttered.

"But the Alliance hasn't entered the war with the Empire. However it may be there, it's better than the situation in the Kingdom and Empire territories." She snapped the thread from his newly covered quiver. "Rhea would rather you stay alive," she said as she put it back in his hands. "Remember that. Goodnight, Cyril."

And then he was alone, staring at the quiver. At the blessings his mother had sewn into the cloth. At the blessings that Shamir had inadvertently stitched into it when she connected the cloth to the quiver's leather. He traced along the threads, still seeing the stain of white ash from the hearthside in Almyra and from the vessel in Claude's room.

Again and again. The blessings piled up.

Lady Rhea had been thinking of him to the end, and yet, he had let the blessings ward away the ill from befalling him and let it fall on her. 

His teeth chattered, but not from the cold. He had been selfish. He had been thoughtless. And now, without her, everything was falling apart. He had been too ungrateful. Even a year ago, he had thought he understood that, but over and over again, the gods were hammering it in.

_ I get it, I get it, _ he swore. He should be less greedy. More thoughtful. He needed to think of only one thing, for that was all he could hold onto. Or else it would all slip from his fingers.

The cloth would no longer bless him. It would no longer be his ward. It would bless the arrows they held so that they would fly true into her enemies until she was returned. 

When morning came, Cyril didn't hesitate to walk into the backroom. Seteth looked surprised, but before he could say a word, Cyril said, "I vote to go after Lady Rhea."

Shamir shut her eyes, a wrinkle of pain appearing in her brow. But Cyril did not say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been awhile. But yes, to anyone who was wondering, this fic will cover the timeskip. 
> 
> I liked how Shamir feels like she owes Rhea a debt but is willing to distance herself and consider it paid if Rhea becomes too much, so I think for her to stay with the Church, Rhea had to have remained someone she could respect before her capture. And I don't care what some routes say--Shamir cares about Cyril!
> 
> Regarding what Dagda/Brigid is inspired by in this fic, I don't think it's going to come across very clear in the fic because I'm not planning to go into it. But here's the headcanon anyways. Basically pre-westward fleeing, its a combination of Nordic bronze age and Celtic societies (the Nordic ones in particular had a lot of contact with the Mycenean Greeks and also the Eurasian Steppes). Then after they fled westward (way sooner than the real life Scandinavians did), they did not go for an Iceland equivalent. They went south, landing in the 3h's equivalent of the Americas. From there, their societies eventually merged. Sorry, I could not find much information about who inhabited the Caribbeans during the Bronze Age, but basically the headcanon is that by the time of 3H's main timeline, the society is like a blend of Taíno/Nordic/Celtic, and Brigid is similar.
> 
> Most of this headcanon like all of my headcanons was pretty much chosen by geography, since like...Dagda is positioned where the Americas should be, but the name is Celtic and Shamir looked close enough to a Fodlan (European?) person that even Petra was doubtful she wasn't from Fodlan. Brigid too, since Petra's last name is also Celtic. And Nordic because their longboats were some of the best at the time and they sailed damn far.


End file.
